


Musketeers Whumptober 2019

by CallMeV



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Comfort, Drunk Athos, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Savoy, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-11-09 03:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 32,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20847083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeV/pseuds/CallMeV
Summary: New:Day 30: Recovery - Porthos & Aramis.





	1. Shaky Hands - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 of Whumptober 2019.
> 
> Aramis has shaky hands. But what could have coursed it?

Between the women he was famous for his good looks and irresistible charm.  
But in the ranks of the Musketeers he earned appreciation for his steady hands.  
No matter how hard a target was to hit, he never missed. No matter how much blood seeped through a wound, his needlework was still one of the finest.

So it was even more interesting, somehow even disturbing to him, that his hands shook NOW.  
Aramis remembered only a few times in his life where his hands had betrayed him. But none of the situations was anything like this one. This one wasn't as dangerous or as painful as his memories.  
So why did his hands shook so hard that he feared to let his precious freight fall?

"Thank you, Monsieur."  
The light voice of the Lady in Waiting rang in his ears as if she screamed at him. Her soft smile seemed so evil and her idle hands seemed way too rough as they wrapped around the small bundle in his arms.

He felt his heart skip a beat and the warmth that had spread in his stomach changed to something much heavier, that pressed on his chest and stopped his breathing.

His fingers felt clumsy as he let them loose, not able - nor allowed - to speak back to the Lady in Waiting. His feelings and thought are treason enough, he didn't need to rouse any more suspicion.

So, reluctant, he let the child being carried away by the woman, leaving him alone in the entrance hall of the Queen's chambers.

The mere minutes in which the Lady in Waiting had been gone to fetch some fresh towels, in which he was able to hold the child - Louis - his son (no, he wasn't allowed to even THINK about it. It was a sin. Treason.)- in his shaky hands seemed like an eternity as well as a fleeting moment at once.

He breathed in deeply, trying to get the storm of feeling that raged in his body to calm down, put his shaking hands into the pockets of his trousers and walked out of the chambers, out of THEIR life's, to continue the one as a childless Musketeer. And once he had left the chambers, had greeted his brothers with a easy, wide smile and slipped into his doublet, his hands were steady again.


	2. Explosion - d'Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second day of Whumtpober 2019:  
D'Artagnan is caught in an explosion. The others are there too.

2\. Explosion

Harsh breaths left his mouth, sparkling a burning fire in his lungs and tired muscles. The sword in his hand felt heavy after hours of swinging it and he wondered how he was supposed to fight just another battle.  
He didn’t have much time as they stormed the castle, battle cries shaking the stone walls and sending waves of adrenaline through his veins. Still, his body arched and the throbbing pain in his calf seemed to have gotten worse through all the running. But there was no time to check or to pause.

His brothers had already engaged into battle again. Tirelessly they fought off enemy after enemy, slitting throats, smashing heads, shooting through torsos. If d’Artagnan would have had the time, he would have watched in awe how these men fought. Though he had had his own fair numbers of fights and squirmishes, nothing had ever been like this. Nothing would ever be like war.  
And even after years of fighting with the older musketeers, side by side, he found that he get them to know in a different way now. They all had fought in wars long before he became a musketeer and using their experience now.  
It had been only few seconds in which he had watched them before his opponent came charging up to him. The spanish soldiers were mostly well skilled, so it wasn’t an easy battle as steel crashed on steel. Still, d’Artagnans swordmansship was still searching it’s peers – apart from Athos, of course – and he pushed the Spaniard further backwards.

He just lunged out for the killing blow as a flickering flame in the back of the courtyard, they had invaded, caught his intention. Home, fire meant warmth and light – security. But in war a flame always meant death. Was it the lit of a musket or of a canon – it was made to kill. So he slayed the enemy fast and efficient with a slash through his throat before he stepped to the side to identify for what the flame was intended.

It was too late as he saw it.

“RETREAT!”

D’Artagnan lunge towards the exit, which was placed on the other side of the courtyard then the dangerous flame – and unfortunately him too. Out of the corner of his eye he cought the glimpse of Athos, still struggling with his opponent. One more look back to the flame, almost reaching it’s target, he jumped and tackled both, Athos and the Spaniard, to the ground and as far away from the bomb as possible.  
He had been not a single second too late as light blinded him and screams were drowned in the sounds of an explosion.

Then, it was darkness.  
……

“NO!” Aramis struggled against the tight grip of Porthos around his torso as flames invaded the courtyard. The one they were able to run off just in time, just because of d’Artagnan who had warned them. D’Artagnan who had still be in there.  
Porthos grunted as a uncoordinated fist of his friend hit his stomach, but remained stubborn. 

He waited until the explosion had settled, the sound of wood and bodies cashing against stone stopped and smoke darkened the deathly still courtyard.

The moment Porthos let his hands loose, Aramis had slipped out of them and ran into the darkness.  
Of course, Porthos had followed. It had been just as hard for him as for Aramis to just watch as the bomb exoploded, with Athos and d’Artagnan close by. But there was no sense to run into death by themselves.  
So he followed Aramis through the darkness, stumbling more often than he found a steady step, trying to ignore the cries of pain and death around them. More soldiers had followed them, searching for their own comrades.  
Porthos wanted to shout for his brothers, but all came out was a rough cough as smoke filled his lungs. 

There were still small places that burned, debris and soldiers scattered along the ground.  
Somewhere between them they had to be. He gulped down the bile that threatened to rise at the thought that they could have been thrown through the air, shattered against one of the high stall walls or crushed by a beam.

Then, causing his heart to race a hundred beats faster, Aramis shouted his name. He hurried after him, hadn’t even noticed that he had fallen behind. Aramis had crouched down in front of a small mount of bodies. In the darkness, Porthos couldn’t tell how many men – or parts of men – laid in front of his friend. What he could tell was that Athos sat there, leaning heavily against Aramis who spoke in hushed tones with their brother.

As he came closer, Porthos noticed dark stains of blood covering Athos’ face and hands, the Captain shuddering under heavy coughs. “Get him out of here. He needs fresh air and water. The wounds are superficial.” Aramis explained fast and turned to one of the bodies on the ground, Porthos and Athos already forgotten.

The bulky man didn’t really think that these kind of wounds should be called superficial, but as long as Aramis said that Athos was save to move, he was okay with it. So he slung one of the Captain’s arms around his shoulder and carried him away. “D’Art?” Athos asked between shuddering breaths.

“Don’t know.” Porthos explained, too focused on the task Aramis had given him. In situations like this, Porthos had learned to follow his brothers lead who always seemed a lot calmer around injured than he himself. As much as he wanted to find d’Artagnan, he knew that he had to help Athos when Aramis ordered him too.  
So he guided his brothers out of the courtyard and onto the field, where fresh air greeted them. He found a discarded waterskin and held it to Athos’ grey lips. The man gulped the contents down before almost choking on a cough.

“D’Artagnan?” He asked again, eyes almost falling shut – either from exhaustion or the head wound, Porthos guessed. He was worried for Athos, who’s gaze didn’t seem to focus on anything and with coughs still wracking his body.

“Aramis has surely found him by now.” Porthos assured. He had no doubt that Aramis had searched and found d’Artagnan, but in which condition the boy would be he couldn’t know.

“He saved me.” Athos whispered, hands fisting in Porthos’ shirts as if to emphasize his point. “Saved my life.” Porthos nodded, putting a warm hand on Athos’ own. 

“Aramis has him.”

….

His fingers prodded around the wound, caused by a part of a beam which had plunged itself into d’Artagnan’s thigh. He couldn’t just rip it out, too high was the risk that d’Artagnan would succumb to blood loss after a short time. He needed medical supplies. Unfortunately, Aramis had lost his small bag hours ago in a fight.

He cursed, words his mother would be ashamed to here, as the blood of his friend coated his fingers.  
A groan form the body beneath him forced his eyes away from the wound and to the ashen face of his brother.  
“Mis?” D’Artagnan asked, clearly disorientated and in pain.

“I’m here. Don’t move, d’Artagnan. Do you here me? Everything will be fine, just do what I say.” The boy nodded, eyes now closed again as he breathed through the pain he had to feel.

Again, Aramis cursed. He wasn’t sure what to do now.

TBC.


	3. Delirium - d'Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Chapter 2.

3\. Delirium

He awoke slowly. Darkness turned into various shapes, moving too fast for his tired eyes. Additionally to the soughing sound in his ears, there were voices, sounding like they were under water, the words too fast spoken for his muddled mind.

And then there was this burning fire in his lungs, taking away his breath. Suddenly he felt panic seizing around his heart. What had happened? Where was he?   
He tried to speak, even though he didn’t know what to say. But once he opened his mouth a cough wracked his weakened body and the fire spread into his sides and throat. He gasped for air, arms and hands searching desperately for something – anything to hold onto.

Soon they found something warm and soft, but also somehow rough, squeezing his hand. The voices grew louder, but still they were drowning in the soughing sound. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed the something his hands had found was a hand. Who’s hand was it? Was he in danger?

In his muddled mind he couldn’t remember that this touch was familiar, was comforting.  
All d’Artagnan knew was that there were strangers around him.

And then, like a wave breaking, memories flooded his mind. The war, the blood, death. An explosion. And then… nothing. Had he been taken prisoner?  
He tried to wriggle out of the grip of the stranger, but it only tightened around his hand. Then, there were hands on his body, holding him down. The voices shouted now, still he wasn’t able to make out the words. Maybe because they were spanish?

His breath grew faster as he tried to struggle free. But they were too strong, there were too many trying to hold him place. What would they do to him?  
He found the answer way too easy as a searing, hot pain erupted in his leg. He screamed, ripping his dry throat apart. It felt like an eternity until the fire burned down and was replaced by a pulsing pain, making his head dizzy.

The answer was torture.

He gulped but didn’t try to break free again, suddenly feeling too weak for any kind of fight. That he still wasn’t able to hear or see properly, the people around him still blurring shapes of brown, sedated him even more. Like this, he would not be able to escape anyway.

…..

“e’s burnin up.” Porthos mumbled, his hand still on the lads brow.

“Already?” Aramis cursed, hands gripping the wood, that was impaled in the boys leg. At least the fever would explain the confused words of their brother.

Weak coughs were wracking d’Artagnan’s body, making it even harder to keep the beam secure in it’s place. “Is the blade hot enough, Athos?” Aramis asked, not even bothering to turn around.  
The man in question didn’t answer, he merely stood beside their selfmade medic, holding an angry red dagger.

Aramis nodded satisfied and took the blade before murmuring a swift prayer. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan, but this has to be done…. Hold him still.”

Complying both Athos and Porthos took hold of the lads leg and arms, making sure he would not hurt himself or Aramis in the upcoming process. 

With his free hand, Aramis ripped the wood out of the leg in a swift motion – causing the barely conscious musketeer to scream and fight against his brothers. Aramis tried to ignore the screams and the nausea forming in his stomach. Fast and effective he cleaned the wound, emptying a bottle of wine above it and then pressed the hot blade onto the fast bleeding wound.   
The smell of burned flesh reached his nose and he had to hold back a gag as he kept it on his brothers leg until the wound was closed.


	4. Human shield - d'Artagnan & Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 of whumptober 2019: Human shield
> 
> D'Artagnan just wanted to save Aramis, who doesn't seem happy with his decision. Porthos is there to explain some things.

“What on earth were you thinking?!” Aramis growled after pushing d’Artagnan off him and got his feet back on the ground.

The lad looked shocked at the sudden outburst, opening his mouth before closing it again without uttering a word. Not that Aramis gave him any chance.

“This was stupid. Thoughtless and stupid. You could have get injured or worse.” The marksman hissed, but didn’t even bother to give d’Artagnan any more attention. Instead he gathered his musket and some of the balls, that had been scattered on the ground, together and stamped away.

D’Artagnan still stood on the same spot as he did after standing up. Standing up because he had pushed Aramis to the ground, because someone had tried to SHOOT him, pushed him to save his life.  
His brow was furrowed in not only confusion but also hurt, as he tried to understand why his brother was so furious with him. Of course something could have happened… but it didn’t. And wouldn’t d’Artagnan have pushed him down, Aramis would have been hit by the well aimed bullet.

Suddenly there was a big hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a comforting gesture. “Don’t take it too personal.” Porthos muttered, eyes fixed on the retreating marksman.   
“I don’t understand why he’s so angry.” D’Artagnan admitted, totally lost.

Porthos smiled in sympathy, patting the lads back. “He’s lost someone important to him, because he had played human shield to save Aramis. He’s still not over it.”  
D’Artagnan’s lips formed a silent ‘O’ and suddenly felt bad for trying to save Aramis. Not for the act itself but for reminding him on something that he obviously didn’t want to be reminded off.

“Who has he lost?”

Porthos sighed. 

“His name was Pierre. He was one of the first Musketeers. Came to the regiment at the same time as Aramis. Pierre had been older and more experienced. I think he was some kind of mentor to ‘Mis back then. It was in the Siege de la Rochelle where Pierre had saved Aramis. Through himself in the way of a bullet that had been meant for ‘Mis. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was also the day I first met Aramis. Helped him to carry the body back. Haven’t seen him silent like then ever again.”

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan muttered, not really sure if he was sorry for playing human shield, remembering Aramis of this bad day or for the loss he had to take. Maybe for all three.  
Still, d’Artagnan knew that he had done the right thing and would do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! I'm looking forward to more xx


	5. Gunpoint - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 of whumptober 2019: Gunpoint
> 
> Aramis got something someone wants.

The rain poured down hard onto the dirty streets of the city, causing his boots to squeak with each step and drops to hit him in the face, despite the hat he always wore.  
Aramis sighed. After a long mission like this one he would have loved a lengthy walk. Unfortunately it seemed that he would be confined to his apartment for the evening. Of course he could join Athos in The Wren, but Aramis just didn’t feel like it. He wanted some peace, also the reason why he didn’t go to one of his mistresses. D’Artagnan and Porthos still were on duty at the palace, where he just had come from.

On the other hand, it had been long since Aramis had stayed a night in, simply reading and relaxing. Maybe it would do him some good.  
He hadn’t even reached his door as he fumbled for his key, wanting to get out of the rain as fast as possible. Reaching his apartment, he opened his swiftly and stepped into the dry, but still cold room. The door fell into it’s lock, but then another tell telling ‘click’ sounded as loud as a bomb in the small room.

Aramis would notice the sound of a gun being unlocked everywhere. His hands flew to his own, secured to his belt while he searched the room for the intruder.  
He had hid behind the door, already pressing the cold metal against his exposed neck. 

“If you want to live, you should keep your hands where I can see them.”

Aramis nodded, holding his hands up as he turned to look his attacker in the face. A face he didn’t know. The man, broad and tall looked a bit gruff with his unkept beard and hair – otherwise there was nothing special on him.

“Who are you?” Aramis asked, his voice lightly as if he was chatting with some friend. Only his posture, tensed and ready to fight any second, gave him away.  
The man frowned and took a step back – and so the gun out of Aramis’ reach. “I’m the one who asks the questions.” The attacker answered gruffly, pointing at the gun in his hand – which was now aimed directly at Aramis’ head. 

“Then ask. But if it’s only answers you seek, why don’t we put our weapons aside and talk like civilized men?”

“You put your weapons down, I keep mine. How does that sound, huh?”

Aramis sighed. He really didn’t like where this was going. As he slowly opened his weapons belt he thought about pulling one of the guns out, but the intruder was too close to miss his own shot. Too high was the risk to be killed before he could even raise his arm. 

So Aramis did the only thing that he could: he followed the orders and put his weapons onto the ground before straightening again, hands now hanging down by his sides.

The man seemed satisfied, still he held the gun pointed at Aramis as he took a look through the room as searching for something. Aramis followed the man’s gaze, just now noticing how destroyed and messy his room was. The intruder must have searched for something before he came home. But what could it be?  
The man gave him the answer to the question easily.

“Where are the letters you got from the Comte de Lusignan?” 

“Not here and not with me.”

The man growled, shaking his head. “I saw you riding away with them from the estate. Give them to me.”

Clearly annoyed Aramis rolled his eyes. Did the man think him stupid? Even if he had the letters – what he most certainly didn’t, because he just gave them to Cardinal Richelieu at the palace – he would not just give them away.

“I don’t have them. Not anymore. I’m sorry, mon ami, but you’re too late.”

The lines on the intruders face deepened in fury but he still didn’t give in, ordering Aramis to take off his doublet. 

“They’re already with the consignee.” Aramis once again rolled his eyes but did as asked and dropped his wet doublet to the ground.

“Your boots and trousers.”

“Listen, if you want to see me naked you could just take me out nicely.” A weak smile played across his lips as the intruder growled but didn’t back down.

So, Aramis stripped down to his briefs and shirt, revealing absolutely nothing. Because, as he had tried to explain to the man, he had nothing of value with him.  
Slowly and painfully noticing his fallacy, the intruder cursed.

“Turn around.” He then hissed through gritted teeth.

Aramis heart sank. Whatever the man had in mind would not end good for him.

Carefully he turned his back to the weapon still pointed at him, his eyes falling to the floor where his weapons laid, so close and still too far.

“Hands on your back and on your knees.”

He slowly sank to his knees, the wood digging into his flesh as he put his hands behind his back as asked. He heard two fast footsteps, knowing that the man had to be right behind him now.  
Hoping that his calculations where right, Aramis took the only chance he saw to get out of this unscathed. He turned around fast, one hand ready to hit the man and his leg trying to kick at the intruder’s ones. 

And, as he had thought, the intruder stood right behind him. Unfortunately, he was already moving the butt of the pistol into the direction of his head.  
There was no time to fight it off or to dodge before the weapon collided with his skull sending a hot wave of pain through it. 

Unconscious, and sluggishly bleeding from the head wound on his temple, Aramis fell to the floor. 

The intruder left unseen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your reviews, Kudos, bookmarks and so on... !


	6. Dragged away - All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 of whumptober 2019: Dragged away
> 
> At first I wanted to write a typical story to this theme. Someone is somehow manhandled and dragged away because of reasons....  
But I've decided against it.
> 
> I hope you like my take on how each of our favorite Musketeers is dragged away. Sometimes more in a metaphorical way than physically.

Athos

“Don’t you think you had enough, mon ami?” Aramis asked, his voice sounding light and teasing but it was laced with concern. 

“Leave ‘e a’one”

Athos had slumped on the table, one hand securing the bottle the others holding up his head, which probably would have fallen onto the table otherwise.

“C’mon we’ll bring you home.” Porthos offered, one hand reaching for his friends shoulder. However, Athos just slapped at it before taking another sip of his bottle.

“’m fine.” He muttered, eyes almost falling close. Still his grip on the battle was deathlike.

“Athos. You’re on duty in the morning. When the Captain sees you like this…”   
D’Artagnan sighed, as Athos once again only flapped his hand in an silencing gesture to return to his drink.

D’Artagnan, who had run out of patience by now, they all were tired and he wanted to go back to Constance, pulled the bottle of his friends grasp an positioned it on the table behind him.

That caused the first real reaction from their friend. Athos’ head shot up, fire burning in his eyes as he stumbled to his feet. “Don’t you dare.” He hissed and tried to grab d’Artagnan’s collar. The action was not only hindered by the alcohol in his blood but also by Aramis who stepped between the two.

“Enough! I don’t care how drunk you are, I won’t let you hurt the lad our yourself because of it!” It was the marksman who now grabbed Athos’ collar, shaking him slighty before holding him still and hissing into his face. “You will now let us bring you into your bed and you won’t argue. You will do as we say so that you can come to morning muster tomorrow and won’t be court martialled.” 

Aramis saw how Athos needed a few seconds until he could comprehend the words before he slumped in his friends grip. “’m sorry.” He mumbled against Aramis’ shoulder, who slung an arm around hi in order to support him.

“It’s okay, mon ami.” Aramis sighed. “Let’s get you home.” 

It needed the three of them to drag Athos out of the tavern and away from the bottle but in the end they made it to his apartments and managed to get him drink some water and lay down.  
And as angry as they had been, they would do it again and again for their brother.

Porthos

As he way a child, barely five years old, he had been pulled from his mothers’ slack arms and dragged out of the room and onto the streets. He had been dragged from the one life in poverty to the next one.

Then, on the streets, he built his own life with his own friends – family. He had made a good living with stealing and cheating, burglaries and ambushes. But he never felt right there. He never felt good. And wasn’t it that what life was supposed to feel like? Good?

So, he had dragged himself out of the Court of Miracles, out of hell and into the infantry.   
There, for the first time in his life, he felt good with the things he did. He was happy with his job. But he was alone. The skin of his colour betraying him each and every time he tried to find something like he had back in the Court. A friendship he could rely on, a brother who would have his back.

Years later, Treville had found him.  
They have had many discussions then. 

Treville wanted him for the Musketeers and Porthos, oh he really wanted too. But it just felt so wrong. The Musketeers regiment was famous for their excellence, for their honour but most importantly for all the noble within it’s ranks. He, a brute form the Court of Miracles with dark skin would not be welcomed there. 

So he declined, again and again.

He shook his head and turned away until Treville took his arm firmly. He had dragged him through the gates. Something that shouldn’t have been able with Porthos so much taller and stronger – but he didn’t really fought back, because a part of him wanted to be dragged there. Wanted to be given another chance.  
And Treville had pulled him towards a table with four musketeers. Two of them left once Porthos arrived, but the other two stayed. One of them, younger than him with long brown hair smiled broadly at him, extending his hand. 

“I’m Aramis.” 

And with this simple handshake, with this welcoming smile and the respect and friendship Aramis had offered him from the first minute, he had pulled Porthos into a new life full of happiness, pride and family.

D’Artagnan

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, planting another kiss on her hair.

“It’s okay, you know that.” She smiled at him, her hands caressing his cheek. Then her eyes fell on the men behind him, waiting. “You really should go now.”   
He sighed, pulling her even closer if it was possible. “I don’t want to leave you.” He kissed her brow, not able to let go of her.

“You have to and I know you can. C’mon, go with them. I know you’re excited.”

D’Artagnan huffed before stealing another, long and desperate kiss from Constance.

“I love you. Look after the Garrison while we’re away.”

She laughed, her beautiful, soft smile spreading to her sparkling eyes. “I love you too. Stay safe.”

“D’Artagnan!” Athos shouted and as he looked behind him, both Athos and Porthos came forward.

“One last kiss.” D’Artagnan answered, kissing Constance for another time, his hands digging into her skin as if he could hold her like this forever.

Then he heard soft laughter, felt a hand clapping on his shoulder and another pulling on his arm, away from Constance.  
He smiled back to her as Porthos dragged him towards their horses, who were all ready and packed for the long journey towards the border, towards war.

“Stay safe!” Constance shouted again as they rode out of the courtyard.

Aramis

No one had seen it coming. They could have, if they would have looked closely. But they didn’t.  
The others had let Aramis’ his space, which he wanted more and more in the last months.  
They hadn’t noticed how his muscles had tensed at every sound that came from the woods surrounding them. They hadn’t noticed how he clutched at the dagger under his blanket while wide eyes searched for an invisible enemy.

They hadn’t noticed, because they didn’t want to annoy him and because it wasn’t anything special that Aramis was easier startled than before. It had become normal to them even though it shouldn’t have. None of this was normal.

They only noticed as they heard a hitch in his breaths. And as Porthos and Athos turned to their brother his breath were rapid, one hand clutching the dagger so that his knuckles turned white and the others searching for support on the ground. His wide, glassy eyes were franticly moving – searching.

Athos and Porthos searched a short glance, before slowly walking towards their third. “Hey ‘Mis, you here us?”

Aramis reacted to the voices, but there was no recognition in his eyes as he stared at them. He just seemed even more scared, sweat now dropping from his brow.

“Aramis, it’s us. Athos and Porthos. You’re save.” Porthos assured, creeping closer. Fortunately Aramis wasn’t in mood for a fight, even though he still held the dagger. Porthos laid his hand on his brothers, still talking quietly while he slowly opened his brothers fingers to take the weapon and toss it aside.

“They’re all dead.” Aramis whispered between harsh breaths, hands flying to his head as he closed his eyes firmly. “I tried – I couldn’t save – all dead – my fault – I… - the ravens – it’s-“

“Sssh.” Porthos hushed, embracing his friend in a tight hug. He could feel the tremors wracking his brothers body as he tried to get his breath under control.

“We need to drag him out of this.” Athos whispered, sitting down on the other side of Aramis.

“I’ve heard of a method for panic attacks.” He announced to Porthos, who nodded. “What is it?”

“Aramis, it’s Athos. Can you hear me?” Aramis turned his head towards him, but he didn’t answer or really seemed to recognize him. His breathing was still too fast and they scared that he would collapse soon.

“What’s your name?” Athos asked in a demanding tone. As Aramis didn’t answer he took his hand in his earning the man’s attention for it. “What is your name?” He asked again, slowly but still in an firm tone.

“Aramis.” Aramis breathed, his hand clasping at Athos’.  
“Good. Who am I?”

Aramis blinked, confusion written on his face. “They’re all dead.”

“No. Answer my question, Aramis. Who am I?”

Aramis blinked again staring at Athos for long seconds before answering quietly. “Musketeer. A friend.” 

“What is my name?”

“I – I don’t know.” Aramis panted, closing his eyes again as panic overwhelmed him.

“I’m Athos. Do you remember where we are?”

“S-savoy.” Aramis squeezed at Athos’ hand tightly, body trembling furiously. 

“No.” Athos answered firmly. “I am Athos, I wasn’t in Savoy. This. is. Not. Savoy. Repeat after me, Aramis. Athos and Porthos are here. They hadn’t been in Savoy. This is not Savoy.”

Aramis still panted but opened his mouth to follow the order. “Athos and Porthos. N-Not Savoy. Not. Savoy.”

“Good. Very good. We’re in the Normandy.”

“Not Savoy. Athos and Porthos. Normandy.” Aramis repeated, slowly relaxing and breathing more slowly even though he still clutched to both of them support.

He took a deep breath, relaxing with it even more and took a careful look around. 

“We’re not in Savoy.” He repeated again, more for himself than for Athos.


	7. Stab wound - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 of whumptober 2019: Stab wound 
> 
> Trouble had once again found Aramis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, shame on me. I've skipped day 7.  
Maybe I will post it sometime later. 
> 
> For now here is Day 8!

It should have been an easy mission.  
Riding for not even a whole day through the peaceful countryside, giving the Baron the letter from the King, waiting for an answer - a whcih shouldn't have taken long - ride back.

The letter didn't have any sensitive information, the Baron wasn't known for trouble. The roude wasn't common for ambushes. So Trevikke hadn't seen any reason to send two of his Musketeers. He may didn't dare to send a fresh recruit all alone, but one well experienced soldier should have been enough for this job.

Should.

But since when had something had ever been easy for the Musketeers? Especially for it's Inseperables, who always seemed to find trouble in the most peaceful situations?

It had all started with the Baron being sick, even close to death his family had said. So his son had taken over the duties of the Baron.  
And as hospitable and generous the old Baron had been, as respectless and angry was his son.

Aramis had to wait outside for the answering letter. Uncomfortable because of the heat, but nothing too uncommon.  
Then, hours later, the Baron finally appeared with one of his guards. Aramis had frowned then, having expected from the young man to only send a servant outside.

He wasn't sure what the letter had been about - it wasn't his place to question it. But something in it had obviously spiked the anger of the son, shown in the tight lines of his face.

Slowly Aramis approached the two men, already holding out his hand to retrieve the answering letter as it was batted away by the guard.

He frowned, a questioning look on his face as he cooked his head to the side. "I was supposed to return with an answer."

As if he had only waited for the words to leave Aramis' mouth, the guard suddenly lunged forward, taking Aramis by surprise.

The Musketeer struggled against the tight grip around his throat, but his arms were secured between his back and the Guard and his kicks seemed to cause nothing to the tall man.

"What's this about?" He asked as he tried to pull in full breaths through his constricted throat.

If he just could reach one of his weapons...

His eyes fell onto the young Baron, who's lips had twitched into an evil grin.

"The answer."

Aramis didn't understand and with the ldck of oxygen it felt hard to concentrate on the matter.  
Then, suddenly, there was a burning fire in his side, leaving him gasping for air.

The guard let go of his iron grip, giving Aramis the possibility to let his hands fall to the source of pain in his side. A dagger had been plunged into his flesh, still sticking in the wound. Blood coated his fingers as he withdrew them, confusion and anger glistening in his eyes.

His hand shot towards his gun, but as he looked up both the Baron and his guard had him already at gunpoint. "I wouldn't do this if I were you. Just leave. Maybe, you still have a chance to reach Paris."

Aramis eyes flew from the two men towards his horse, which was still tethered to a nearby tree. He didn't like to leave without a fight but he knew when he was defeated. Moreover he couldn't just kill the son of a Baron, even though he was a prick.  
So he did the only thing he could now.  
He slowly walked - or more shuffled-towards Esmé, one hand raised into the air to show that he was no threat, the other clamping around the dagger to make sure it wouldn't move.

The only moment where he turned his back to the Baron and his guard was as he mounted up, less graceful as he wanted to.  
A new wave of hot white pain shot through his torso as he climbed onto the back of Emsé.  
His hands gapped the reins tightly and he duck his heels into the body of his mare.

Esmé started to gallop, away from the Baron and towards Paris, her fast movements causing Aramis to see black spots in his vision.

He slowed down once they were out of the reach of the Baron. His hands had lost their grip around the reigns minutes ago, instead clinging to the mane, his upper body heavily leaning against the animals neck.

By now he was panting, sweat dripping down his brow. He would have done everything to be able to just stop but he couldn't.

If he would hurry he could reach Paris before nightfall. He had to reach Paris.  
Staring with glassy eyes at his shaking hands, he knew he would not be able to sew himself up here on the road. He could not even dislodge the dagger, who pierced relentless into flesh and muscles. Once the weapon would be out the wound would bleed heavily and would have to sewn soon.

Somehow he managed to open the sash around his waist and wrapped it around the dagger to hold it in place while he kept riding on.

The next few hours were a blurry haze to the Musketeer. He had dozed off more than a few times, his wound still sluggishly bleeding through his sash. He was glad that Esmé was an intelligent horse - of course she was, she was handpicked by him - so she would find the way back to the Garrison by herself.

It was already dark as they trotted through the streets of Paris. Only few habitats were still outside, no one noticed or cared for the injured man leaning across his horses back.

As Aramis opened his eyes the next time, they stood in the courtyard a worried stable boy in front of him, lips moving too fast for him to follow.

Then, the next second - or was it minutes later? - his brothers were by his side, pulling his limp from from Esmé.  
Aramis wanted to protest, dismount by himself, but before he could react he was already down, groaning as a nrw wave of pain shot through his side.

He was unconscious before they had hauled him to the infirmary.


	8. Isolation /Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 & 9 of whumptober 2019: Isolation / Shackled
> 
> One of the boys it captured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to put two days into one.  
I'm hanging behind, as yu may have noticed and I apologies for this.  
But work and university are once again quiet stressful.

At the beginning, he tucked and pulled at the chains. He tried to break them open by beating them against the wall.  
But soon, he had stopped to spend his precious reserves of strength for something as impossible as this. The chains were thick and wouldn’t just fall open.   
All the struggles to get free had left him drained out and his wrists and ankles raw. He was sure they would be bloody, but in the sparse light of the cell he couldn’t be sure.  
He had tried to find a comfortable position while he would have to wait for a rescue or a visit from his capturers. But the act had showed up to be more difficult than thought. The chain was too short to allow him to straighten his legs fully, which only left the possibility to pull them towards his chest. Like this, his arms were pulled uncomfortably low where they were tied behind his back. He would not be able to fully lean against the wall with his back, without crushing his hands. So he decided to lean sideways against the wall.

Time was a weird construct, the Musketeer thought.  
In his small cell came little light from a gap under the door, but there were no windows or anything other to give him a hint of what time of day it was. There weren’t visitors neither. It felt like an eternity that he had been in there, but probably it would have been around a day. He was thirsty, his throat burned and his tongue laid heavily in his mouth. He was hungry too, but decided that he had had worst. So it couldn’t been more than a day that he had been struck in there.

Later, he wished for nothing but light, water and sound. It was so silent. The only sounds were his ragged breaths, caused by the uncomfortable position. He tried to stretch his legs every now and then as far as possible, but soon he didn’t had any feeling in them left beside a burning pain in his arching muscles.   
He started to speak. First he tried to imagine one of his brothers being with him, told him stories of past missions and women he used to love. But all this talking left him even more thirsty, forcing him to stop soon again and to return back to silence.

Another eternity later, there finally were sounds. Shouts, screams, metal clashing on metal.   
His brothers had come to save him.


	9. Unconscious - Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 of whumptober 2019: Unconscious
> 
> This time it's Porthos' time for some whump.

“We can’t go much further.” D’Artagnan breathed as he readjusted the limp arm around his shoulders. His neck and back arched from leaning way too long to the right side and he wasn’t sure how long his arms and legs would be able to carry the extra weight.

As he glanced over to Aramis, the marksman’s face was determined but not less tensed in exhaustion than his.  
They had run through the woods for hours now, the death weight of an stubbornly unconscious Porthos between two of them. They had switched places as often as possible. Athos, who had helped carry their friend for the first hours of their run, was now at the peak of their small procession.

“There’s a cave. We can hide there.” Athos announced. He didn’t like the thought of standing still with the bandits still on their heels but the boy was right. They were all exhausted and tired and needed a rest. Moreover, Porthos had to be treated.

That he still hadn’t waken up since one of he horses had kicked him against the head had them all worrying, even though no one dared to speak it out loud.  
They dragged their friend towards the small entrance, narrow enough that only one person at a time would fit through it. Perfect to protect it, Athos thought and ushered the three men through the entrance.   
It was quite an act to get Porthos through the small gap without hurting him, but after a few attempts they had were all inside the cave. Aramis and d’Artagnan laid the prone figure of their friend onto the ground, while Athos guarded their hideout.

“How is he?” D’Artagnan asked while he watched Aramis examining the gaping wound.

“Head wounds always look worse than they are, because they’re bleeding so much. He should recover, even though he had lost a lot of blood. I have to stitch the wound.”


	10. Stitches - Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11 of whumptober 2019: Stitches.
> 
> Porthos needs Stitches. Porthos doesn't like to get stitched.

Of course Porthos had to wake the moment Aramis threaded the needle.  
Once his glassy eyes become more focused and he understood hat his friend was about to do Porthos thrashed. He hated needles. And he hated them most close to his face.  
“Can’t we just put a bandage on it?” He rasped, his throat tight and dry from leck of water. But d’Artagnan was already by his side, offering him some water.

Porthos gulped it down before turning back to the more important topic. “You’re definitely not going to plunge it into my skin.” He glared daggers at Aramis who seemed unconcerned by the thread.  
“There’s no other way, mon ami. Unfortunately, we can’t knock you out or give you some wine. Too dangerous with a already pounding head.” He smiled weakly in sympathy at the headache he knew his friends had to have.

Porthos grumbled, eyeing the needle with pure hate.  
“It’s surely not THAT bad.”

Aramis huffed as he took out a flask with some alcohol in it to clean the wound. “Bad enough. Now hold still.”

Having enough experience to know that Porthos won’t hold still, D’artagnan pinned him down by the shoulders while Aramis held his head in one hand. With the other one he poured the alcohol over the gaping wound, causing Porthos to moan in pain.

“Aramis.” He then pleaded, knowing what would follow after the cleaning. 

“Porthos, I won’t argue with you about this. – Athos, we need your help!”

Moments later Athos sat also by Porthos’ side, holding his head tightly in his hands while d’Artagnan had changed tactics and now sat on Porthos upper body to keep his legs out of Aramis’ reach and still be able to hold the shoulders down.

“I hate you. All of you.” Porthos growled as he tried to struggle free, but weakened as he was he hadn’t a chance against his brother.

“We love you too, mon ami.” Aramis smiled before he put the first stitch.  
Porthos continued his curses, all the while trying to get free, earning some muttered curses or moans from d’Artagnan who was kicked or hit by flying hands a few times.

An exhaled breath from Aramis announced the end of the torture as he sat back on his heels. “Done. And see, mon ami, you’re still alive.”   
Porthos grumbled something under his breath, but then also mumbled a small “thanks”.


	11. "Don't move." - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 of whumptober 2019: Don't move.
> 
> Trapped on unsteady ground, Aramis shouldn't move until help arrives.

The wind was hauling, whipping into their faces and making life just a little bit more miserable.  
Their legs were heavy and their concentration fading – but one wrong step would mean death. So they tried to keep their minds focused and spirits up. Even after days of traveling, Aramis still had storys to tell and his endless jabbering gave them something to smile of.

Aramis had to shout so that his words would be heard over the hauling wind, and most of the time he turned his head backwards as he told his storys, so the others could hear him better. Until Athos shot him an warning look, ordering him to look where he was going. 

The path they were wandering was so narrow that no two people could have safely walked side by side. It was even worse for the horses, which were walking behind their riders, their hooves loosing hold on the stony ground more than once. Would one fall to his right side, it wouldn’t be too bad. The high walls of the mountains would catch every fall. On the other side it looked far worse.   
The path ended abruptly to fall into a steep cliff which ended about hundred meters down in a valley.  
It was sudden as Aramis monologue came to a halt as his horse neighed, it’s horses desperately searching for purchase on the suddenly thinner path, where a part of the rocks had crumbled and fallen into the canyon.

Porthos had to take a step to not be kicked by the agitated animal while Aramis pulled at the reigns and tried to pull the horse on more steady ground. His heart jumped in his chest as he noticed more stones crumble, one time right beneath his foot causing him to stumble right into the wall.  
The horse on the other side didn’t find purchase. In order to not be taken with it, Aramis had to let the reigns loose and could only watch as the animal fell into it’s death. With the animal, there fell more rocks from the crumbling ground, ripping a broad gap where the beast had once stood. 

Aramis had to take a few steps back to flee from the opening ground and was now separate several metres from his brothers who stared at him with wide eyes.  
“I think you have to turn around. We will meet on the top.” Aramis sighed. He would just take the way they had planned to take – praying that not more of the path would just vanish and the others would have to take a detour as there was no way they could cross the gap between them.

“Is the rest of your way save?” D’Artagnan then shouted over the hauling wind, as the last of their procession he wasn’t even able to see Aramis.

Aramis shrugged. The ground beneath his feet was dry, crumbling but for now it seemed save. He looked into the direction where he would have to walk, the path hidden behind a curve of the mountains. He took a few careful steps forward, glancing around the curve just to stop suddenly.   
The path there had been totally destroyed. There was no way he could go into this direction. But backwards was a metre long gap separating him from the others. He gulped, before he shouted.

“It’s crumbled! I have to get back!”

Slowly he walked towards the edge of the gap, thinking if he could just jump before coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t.  
With each step he took he felt the ground beneath his feet crumble a little more, draught and the wind paired with his weight weren’t helping.

“Okay. Just don’t move Aramis! We will get you over here.”

Aramis huffed but took a step closer to the safety of the wall and away from the edge, causing more ground to fall. He felt his heart hammering in his heart as every now and then stones loosened from the ground. 

“Could you… hurry up a bit?”

His eyes were focused on the path he was standing on, growing slimmer with each second that past, so he didn’t see d’Artagnan giving a rope through their rows until Porthos got it and bound it around his waist. Athos somehow managed to squeeze past Porthos’ horse and now stood right behind him, securing the rest of the rope around his own waist. 

“Catch!” Porthos then warned before he threw the rest of the length towards Aramis who caught it and eyed it sceptically.

He also bound it around his torso. He first wanted to secure it to the wall or some other rock to shimmy over the rope to the other side, but he didn’t trust any of his crumbling surroundings.

“Just try to jump! We’ve got you!”

Porthos shouted, earning a nervous laugh from his friend.

“I will take it personal if you let me fall!” Aramis warned humorous, but his shaking voice betrayed him.  
Still, he had no choice.  
So he took a step back, as far as the rope allowed and began to run. As he jumped the round beneath his feet gave in and crumbled before he could get enough force for his jump.   
He did not even manage half of the way over the gap before he fell.

His heart had stopped working then for a moment. His breath had been struck inside him until the rope pulled tight around his torso driving it harshly out of him.   
Aramis gasped, his hands gripping the rope, on which his life dangled, so tight his knuckles turned white while the rope around his torso took all of his breath.

And then, he really didn’t want to – but nevertheless, his eyes wandered down to see nothing but sharp stones awaiting him deep down. 

“We’ve got you!” Porthos shouted just in the same moment as if he knew that Aramis, the calm and action-loving man, started to panic.

He felt a tug on the rope until he came closer to the stony walls and to the sky. Closer to safety. Once it was in his reach, Aramis grabbed the wall and tried to climb upwards or at least take some weight from the rope.  
It felt like an eternity later that he finally had steady ground back beneath his feet.


	12. Adrenaline - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 13 of whumptober 2019: Adrenaline
> 
> Gladly there is adrenaline, giving us strength in times of need.

“Stop now and the consequences will be light.” Athos stepped carefully forward, his hands in the air to show he wasn’t a threat. In his peripheral sight he noticed Aramis following his moves.  
“Until now no one has been hurt. It was a simple robbery, the King could be merciful. But hurting or killing a Musketeer will leave him no other choice than to condemn you to the noose.” Aramis argued, his voice calm, even though every muscle in his body was tensed. 

While Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s eyes were fixed on the bandit, Aramis couldn’t loosen his gaze from Porthos who laid slumped in the man’s tight grip.  
If the bandit would let go and push him, the unconscious musketeer would fall down the cliff, landing in deep and raging waters. Even up there Aramis could here the waves crashing against the rocks, threatening to crush everything that came between them. Especially a unconscious, injured man who never had learned how to swim.

“No step further!” The bandit shouted, his eyes flying from one Musketeer to the other over to his dead comrades littering the ground.

D’Artagnan frowned as he studied the man’s expression, a niggling feeling in his stomach.

“Aramis.” He hissed, catching the marksman’s attention.

“I know.” Aramis answered in a hushed tone.

Athos spoke again, loud enough for the bandit to heat them and tried to persuade him to let Porthos go. While the bandits attention was drawn away from him, Aramis opened his belt and sash. Due to the hot weather he hadn’t worn any cape or other heavy clothes.   
And then, d’Artagnan shouted his name the same moment the bandit let go of Porthos, pushing him off the cliff. 

Aramis let his belt fall to the ground, already jumping after the unconscious form of his brother.  
A gunshot rang out before he dropped into the water, but he didn’t give it any attention. He had to find Porthos.  
Aramis swam to the surface, gulping in as much air as possible while he searched for Porthos and tried not to drown by himself as the waves swept him with them.   
Not far away from him he recognized the familiar brown of Porthos’ clothes. 

As good as a swimmer as Aramis may have been, swimming against the stream was hard and he was drowned more than once on his way to his unconscious brother, who sometimes was above the surface just to be taken by the waves and fade in the dark water.

He somehow made it to the still prone form of Porthos, chest heaving heavily and a threating cough settling in his lungs. But he couldn’t stop now, even though his legs and arms were heavy and he wasn’t sure how to ever get out of this wet hell.   
Another wave threatened to take Porthos away again, so Aramis slung one of his arms around his friends chest fast, before he laid himself on the back to drag them both back to the shore.

At least they could now swim with the stream, but still the waves crashed over them and drowning both of them. Aramis gasped for air, his right arm stubbornly tight around his brothers body while his left one tried to keep them both over water. It was getting harder with every second, their leathers and Porthos’ weight dragging them down faster than Aramis could paddle.  
He didn’t have any feeling left in his arms, his chest burned brightly with lack of air and effort, but he refused to let them both die now.   
He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline in his veins, the blood pulsating heavily in his ears – so loud he could barely hear the crashing waves or the shouts of their brothers.  
So Aramis kept swimming. 

He hadn’t noticed how far he has come until he felt strong arms around his torso and saw Porthos being gently taken from his grip.   
D’Artagnan and Athos dragged them out of the flat water and onto the dry sand.  
Aramis stayed there staring at the sun above him until his chest stopped heaving.   
As he stood up, his knees buckled sending him back into the sand.

Suddenly, everything hurt and was way too heavy to be connected with his body.

“Rest, ‘Mis. You’re exhausted.”  
He nodded, but already had drifted off.


	13. Tear stained - Aramis/Anne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 of whumptober 2019.
> 
> Aramis leaves for war.

It had to be over a decade since he had last seen her like this.  
And he wondered, if he just hadn't seen the tears streaming down her face for all the years - if she was so good at hiding her pain or if he was just blind for it.  
Then, the last time he had seen tears streaming down her face, it had been on the funeral of her husband, the King. She had told him how it had never been real love between the both of them, still Louis and Anne had shared something together. Being married so young to a stranger, forced into the life they had had bonded them in a different kind of way that love could.  
So she had cried then, because she missed him somehow. Bust most importantly because she was scared of the life that would follow. Because without Louis everything seemed so uncertain, unsave.

But then, things had changed. For the first time in her life SHE had been the one to make the decisions. And she had felt save.

D'Artagnan had done great work with the Musketeers, protecting the city just as well as the Palace. Constance still was a consent comfort by her and her sons side.  
And then there was Aramis. The most important decision she had ever made.

And now he thanked her for the life he got to live like this?

He had done everything to keep him alive - and away from the dangerous life as a Musketeer - and close to his son and the woman he loved. And now, he just wanted to leave?

She felt unsave again. Again, everything seemed to be so uncertain. Who would be the next First Minister? Would everything work out?  
How could she live without the love they both had shared?

"Te amo, Anna." He whispered, eyes full of love, guilt and pain. But there was also a familiar glint of determination.  
"But that is not the life that God had wanted me to live."

"And why else would he have gifted us a son?" She hissed, sounding angrier than she was. She understood him, she really did. But it hurt. And she just couldn't let him go.

Aramis looked around startled, scared that anyone would have heard her words. But they were alone.

"I don't know. But I know I should be out there. Fighting the battles, not ordering them to be fought."

"You can't just leave!" She ran out of arguments, Anne knew it. So she got deaperate.  
"You're too old anyway. Even Louis is faster than you now. You wouldn't stand a chance in a real battle."

Aramis sighed, a sad smile tugging at his lips. He knew Anne too well to be hurt by her words. Instead of answering, he stepped forward to place his hand against her cheeks gently, his thumb wishing away a tear, that was quickly followed by another.

"I am sorry, mi amor. But I can't just stay here forever. But when I come back, when the war is finally over, I will there only for you and our son."

'If you come back' Anne thinks but brushed the thought back fast. She shouldn't think like this. So she wiped away the last tears, forcing herself to a slight smile.

"Just don't forget met."


	14. Scars - All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15: Scars.
> 
> Behind every scar there is a story.

Behind every scar there is a story.

Some were obvious, like Athos’ scar on his lip, separating his upper lip since his birth. It told the story of a child defaced since it’s first day on earth. But also of a noble family, rich enough to sent for a surgeon and save their child from heavier consequences than a scar. Untreated, a harelip like his could have been deathly. 

Other scars may were just as obvious, but the story to them was a myth to most but to them who were supposed to know the truth behind it.  
Porthos had learned long ago that scars – as ugly they could be – also showed strength. And he had learned that people were scared of scarred people just because of this strength and the reasons that could have caused this scar. A vast scar like the one he carried on his face, he had learned, was especially threating to strangers. Often it came in handy. 

People didn’t try to start a fight with him, because there was this story that he had fought with a bear and survived. Others, were running out of his way and avoiding any form of contact, because they thought he had earned the scar in a street fight against six men. 

Then, there were the people who stared and whispered the moment they saw it. They had heard he was a searched murderer. Sometimes he liked to be frightening like this, it made many things easier.  
But it made finding friends harder. There were only few people who knew the story behind the scar. Five to be concrete. Aramis, Athos, d’Artagnan, Flea and the one who had caused it, Charon. The day Porthos had announced that he would leave the Court of miracles, that he would start a new life as a soldier in the infantry, Charon had clearly shown him what he had thought of it.  
Then there were the scars which, if the story behind them was told correctly, could impress, fascinate, inspire and even seduce. It was a perfect mix of the placement of an obvious, but well healed and not ugly scar on Aramis’ crook of the neck, his good looks and his way with words that would impress anyone. The story he told sounded more heroic than it truly was to be shot in the first minutes of a battle. But Aramis managed to emphasize the right parts – that he kept on fighting with his left hand, that he was one of the first soldiers that had rushed into the battle – and to leave the less heroic parts – like falling unconscious right in front of his Captain’s feet, bleeding through his clothes or screaming as the bullet was removed – out.

A different kind of scars blossomed on d’Artagnan’s skin. Scars that hadn’t been made yet. Suntanned skin untouched by the nightmares of soldiering. It was his story that each fellow Musketeer and soldier knew once they looked at him properly. No wounds, no scars – no experience. And it were these scars which untold stories were the worst. Because they were so obvious because they weren’t there. A soldier without injuries was worth nothing in the ranks of the army. 

Of course his brother knew. They knew how he struggled with it. That any fellow soldier they met, even the Red Guards, knew on first gaze that he was new. But they also knew his true worth and that his lack of experience meant nothing in the face of his skill. They comforted him with the unfortunate knowledge that enough injuries and scars would follow in his time between the Musketeers.


	15. Pinned down - Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 16: Pinned down.
> 
> Porthos' leg is seriously injured after he was pinned down by a rock. Aramis is trying to help him.

There was a rumbling sound, louder and longer than thunder. It caused them to stop in their tracks, eying the part of the tunnel from where they just had come with suspicion. 

“What was that?” Porthos asked, his torch not giving enough light to see the reason for the sound. Aramis shrugged, muscles tensed as he stared into the darkness, waiting for something to happen.

“Maybe it’s the echo of the thunder?” He guessed, not quiet convinced by himself.   
Then, the sound grew came again. Louder this time, closer. The sound was followed by something shattering. Something big and hard.

“Stones.” Aramis gasped, as the first small debris started to fall onto their heads. 

“RUN!” He pushed Porthos forwards, urging him to run deeper into the tunnel as bigger and heavier rocks loosened from the ceiling and closing the way they had come through. Aramis was faster than Porthos and grabbed his friend’s arm to tug him behind, trying to urge him to be just a little bit faster. The stones were catching up with them. Porthos felt them fall right behind his heels.

One caught his foot, causing him to stumble. Weren’t it for Aramis tight grip he would have fallen and crashed by another rock. Aramis pulled him further, but the moment of imbalance had been enough. Porthos was too slow to avoid another stone catching his leg and pulling him to the ground. Aramis’ finger lost their grip on his arm as he watched his brother fall with horror. 

Porthos scream echoed in the tunnel, even louder than the thundering of the raining ceiling. Aramis wanted to rush to his friends aid but more rocks were falling, separating him from his friend for the moment. Aramis managed to squeeze into a narrow crack in the wall, hiding there from the still falling stones while praying for his friend. It felt like an eternity until the thundering sounds had passed and a deathly silence fell over the tunnel.

Aramis waited no second longer than necessary to slip out of his hiding space and climb over the first rocks. “Porthos?!”

With their torches gone and shattered from the rocks it was pitch black now. Aramis found his way by feeling only, stumbling and falling over the uneven ground. “PORTHOS?!” He screamed louder as now answer came.   
Then there was a pained grunt. “Here.” Aramis followed the voice, it couldn’t be far.  
“I’m here.” Aramis assured as he felt soft flesh beneath his fingers and squeezed what he thought was an arm. 

“I’m… trapped.” Porthos was strained with pain.  
“Where?” Aramis searched for the reason for his brothers pain and found another stone promptly.   
“My leg. I can’t get it out.” 

Aramis gulped as his hands roamed over the stone, trying to make out it’s size and weight.   
“Do you think it’s broken?” He asked, his fingers finding the bottom of the rock. Careful to not touch Porthos’ wound he tried to lift it, but the stone didn’t move an inch. “It’s too heavy.”

“Not reassuring.” Porthos muttered through gritted teeth. “It hurts like hell in my thigh.”

“And your shin and foot?” Aramis asked, a dreadful feeling burning in his chest as his mind raced through possibilities to lift the stone and how to treat Porthos’ injurie.  
“I don’t think that I can feel it.” Porthos admitted, voice laced with not only pain but also fear. “Do you think-“

“I don’t know.” Aramis answered curtly, not daring to think about the possibilities. Not thinking of what he would have to do should Porthos have lost the feeling in his leg.  
“But I have an idea.” He muttered an unsheathed his sword. 

“Tell me should I accidently cut you.” Before Porthos could ask what the hell Aramis was doing he felt the cold metal of his sword slipping between the stone and his other – not so much hurting – leg. 

“Can you wriggle out of the way when I tell you to?”  
Porthos grunted a ‘yes’, even though he wasn’t sure if he really could.

“Good. Because if the stone crashes down on you again-“ Aramis shook his head to clean his mind and braced himself. “Ready? 3. 2.” He pushed down onto the handle of his sword with all his weight, one foot also pushing against the rock to get it moving. 

“One!” 

Porthos felt the stone move first from his uninjured leg and then from the other one, a new wave of pain spasming through his limb as he forced himself to roll out of the way. Not a second later there was a crash and Aramis breathed out loudly.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

Aramis slung an arm around his shoulder and heaved him upwards, earning a paint grunt from Porthos.  
“How’s the leg?” Aramis asked as they somehow wriggled through the stony mess on the ground.  
“Nothing changed.” Porthos hissed, eyes clenched in pain as they moved.

“It’s not far.” Aramis assured and was right as they soon reached light and the end of the tunnel.  
He helped Porthos down right in front of the entrance and kneeled beside him.  
Porthos’ thigh was bloody and the unnatural shape of it confirmed a fracture. 

“Do you feel this?” Aramis asked as he poked at his friends knee. 

Eyes closed against the pain and the fear, lips pressed tightly together, Porthos shook his head. “No.” 

Aramis gulped, the hairs on his neck standing up as his breath was struck in his chest. He suddenly felt sick as he kept on examining the leg.

“Will you amputate it? Like you did with Gerome?” Porthos asked, wide eyes staring at his brothers. Pleading for a reassuring answer.   
Aramis couldn’t lie but he also couldn’t give up hope.

“This-“ he pointed at Porthos leg, “is beyond my knowledge, mon ami.” Aramis wished he could help him. Do anything. But this wasn’t anything he had ever dealt with before. Porthos leg was still fully attached to his body and even though he had lost feeling in his shin it still seemed to be supplied.

It maybe wasn’t completely lost like Gerome’s. He shuddered at the thought of the boy and the act of amputating a limb. It had been the only time he had to do it and prayed that it would stay like this. It was gruesome.  
He feared he would ruin the limb if he did anything wrong by treating the fracture the wrong way. But he also feared to ruin it by doing nothing now.   
“Athos and d’Artagnan should arrive soon. They will get a doctor from the village. It’s not that far.”

There wasn’t another option he could think off now. Moving Porthos was too dangerous given the circumstances.  
“Aramis?” Porthos breathed, eyes shut again against the pain.   
“Yes, mon ami?” Aramis asked, taking his brothers hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“I don’t want to loose my leg like Gerome.”

“You won’t.” Aramis answered. And hoped that he was right. He would not be able to stand by while Porthos’ muscles and bones were sawn. 

….

“What happened?” Athos asked from his horse.   
Once he had seen them coming, Aramis had jumped to his feet and came running towards his friends. He gave a short report of what had happened. “You need to ride to the village. Get a doctor.”

“Can’t we transport Porthos into the village?” D’Artagnan asked but Aramis shook his head.  
“We shouldn’t move him unless a doctor says so. Now ride. Hurry up.”  
D’Artagnan nodded curtly and didn’t lost a moment more before he turned his horse around and spurted it towards the village.   
Athos stayed with them, helping by building a fire as it started to get dark and colder.  
Porthos had fallen asleep – or into unconsciousness – after Aramis had given him some strong herbs to chew on. At least they helped.  
It was not even an hour later as d’Artagnan and a man his his fourtys, bulky and more looking like a butcher than a doctor, arrived.  
Luckily the lad had explained the situation on their way to the three men, so they didn’t loose any more time. The doctor kneeled beside Porthos, inspecting the wound.  
Aramis took place on the other side of his brother, following the doctor’s movements with a keen eye.   
“We need to set and splint the fracture. As there is still blood running through his leg, I would not amputate it yet. Maybe his nerves are cut or impacted and that’s why he has no feeling in it.”

Aramis let out a breath of relieve at the information. As he first saw the man he had feared that he would just want to amputate the leg. Many field medics would have acted the ways – they had been just like butchers. But this man, despite his first appearance, seemed to be more experienced.  
As the doctor started to set the bone, Aramis was glad that Porthos was still unconscious.   
The following tasks were fast done and there was nothing more left than to pray that Porthos would regain his feeling.


	16. "Stay with me" - Aramis & Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17: "Stay with me"
> 
> Following to the prompt of Day 8: Stab wound.

Continuing from 8. Stab wound.

Porthos paced the room up and down, hands fidgeting with the scarf he had had wrapped around his head before, his gaze flickering over to the unconscious form of his brother.   
“How long does it take to fetch a doctor?!” He growled, frustration rising.  
Athos looked at him with an equal measure of worry in his eyes, his hands keeping the dagger impaled in their brother in it’s place. Which was good, as Aramis came back to his senses with more movement than was good for him. He groaned in pain as the blade moved inside him, his eyes suddenly wide open as he remembered what had happened.  
“Where..?”   
“In the Garrison.” Porthos reassured and took his brothers hand in his to give it a gentle squeeze. “You’re save.”  
“No… Not save.” Aramis murmured, eyes glassy from the fever that had started to burn under his skin. He opened his mouth again to explain to his brothers but only a pained gasp was leaving his lips.  
“Ssh.” Porthos hushed and stroke some of the sweaty hair out of his face. “We’re here. D’Artagnan is fetching a doctor. You’re save. You will be fine.”

“No, no. You don’t….” Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that overcame him in waves once he spoke and strained his abs. 

“Don’t speak, ‘Mis. You will be okay, yes? You can tell us what happened later. For now, you’re save.”

Before Aramis could argue and try again to speak, the door crashed open an d’Artagnan burst in, doctor Lemay in tow. 

Lemay didn’t waste any time on greetings as he rushed to Aramis side and examined his wound.   
“Has he brought up any blood?” He asked, voice tensed as he gently peeled away the fabric around the wound.   
“No. I don’t think so.” Porthos answered, anxiety rising in his chest. 

“That’s good. Very good.” Lemay breathed in relief but once he looked up to Aramis’ face his own fell back into a tense mask. “He’s battling a fever, though. The wound is probably already infected. How long had the knife been in there?”

While he waited for an answer he ripped the rest of Aramis’ shirt open for better access to the wound. 

“We don’t know.” Athos admitted, not wanting to imagine how long his brother had to ride with a dagger impaled in his flesh. 

“Noon.” Aramis gasped between shallow breaths.  
“That’s quiet a while.” Lemay muttered to himself and laid out his utensils and then looked into the three worried faces surrounded around the bed. “If you would help me, gentlemen?”   
The three acted immediately, taking hold of Aramis chest, arms and legs to keep him from moving too much.   
Knowing what would happen, Aramis bet down on the collar of his doublet.  
Then everything happened fast, even though it didn’t feel like it for Aramis. He felt the blade slice through muscles and flesh again as it was moved. Felt how the wound clenched around the gaping hole as Lemay pulled the dagger out. Aramis buckled from the bed, letting out a heart wrenching scream. Another but quieter one followed as Lemay poured alcohol over the wound, burning on the sensitive spot as if it were fire.  
“I have to cut some of the infected flesh off.” Lemay than announced as he took a small but very sharp knife from the small table placed behind him.   
Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan renewed their efforts in holding Aramis down, who laid gasping and moaning underneath them.  
Lemay worked as fast as possible, but there were things that couldn’t be rushed. In the sensitive area of the stomach he had be careful with every cut he made while Aramis struggled against the tight grip on his arms, lost in his own world of pain.   
Thankfully, Aramis fell unconscious by his second cut and allowed his brothers to let go off him while Lemay efficiently stitched up the heavy bleeding wound. He then put a salve on the wound and wrapped it with fresh bandages before leaving with the information that he would come back in the morning.  
Meanwhile, Aramis stayed unconscious but no less restless. He thrashed, sweat dripping down his skin as hands twisted in the sheets. “Not save.” He breathed. “Listen.”   
“We’re here.” D’Artagnan hushed as he put a wet towel on Aramis’ hot brow.   
….  
Hours wore on and Aramis still had to regain consciousness. The thrashing had stopped, leaving him deathly still and pale. It was even more worrying than all the muttering. You could have mistaken him for a corpse as he was almost as white as the sheets beneath him, his breath only moving shallowly.   
By now the room had turned almost as dark as the courtyard, only illuminated by a few lonely candles. The flickering of the flames was caught in Porthos’ dark eyes, as he sat by his brothers side. Every few minutes he changed the towels on his brow and around his calves against fresh and cold ones. But the hot skin seemed to take all the coolness and wetness from them in seconds.  
There was no chance to give Aramis enough of the medicine Lemay had left with them. They had tried to feed it to him, but most of precious liquid had been spilled on the pillow.   
Porthos sighed, laying his head onto the mattress near Aramis’ arm, exhaustion and worry battling inside his body, which craved after sleep. But his mind would not let him find peace any time soon, not when Aramis was fighting for his life. Porthos took his friends hand in his, squeezing it gently.  
“Don’t you dare to leave us now.” Porthos urged. “Fight.” He ordered, lifting his head again and staring at Aramis’ pale face as if his will alone could heal him.  
….  
The next day passed in a blurry to Porthos. He had eaten at some point, had walked around in the courtyard for a few minutes, at had dozed off by Aramis’ side as exhaustion had finally won out.  
But then the next evening came and time moved a little faster, as his brother started to move again in his sleep. Soon, uncoherent spoken words joined his movements. Then there were his eyelids, fluttering open, slowly as if it were heavy work to lift them. 

“What happen’d?” Aramis rasped, tongue thick in his mouth. Porthos eased his head from the pillow to give him some water mixed with the medicine. “You were stabbed, that’s all we know.” He lifted the cup to Aramis’ mouth but once the smell reached Aramis’ nose he shook his head.   
“I remember.” Aramis tried to push himself upwards but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate just yet. He couldn’t fight Porthos off who was gently but determined holding him down.

“Drink this first.” He pleaded, wanting to follow the doctors instructions to the point as long as they were to help his brother.   
Aramis shook his head again. “No… can’t rest now… The duke-“ he took a moment to regain his breath, the pain still overwhelming him with each breath.  
“His son …. Did it. He’s surely planning …. Something.. Against the… King.”  
“He already acted against him.” It was Treville’s stern voice that rang through the room, stilling the soldiers in their moves and earning questioning looks.  
“Attacking a Musketeer in his Majesty’s business is certainly treason. I will notify the King of this. And you-“ Treville pointed a finger at Aramis. “Will stay with Porthos and the others. In the Garrison.”

The door fall closed behind Treville, leaing Aramis grinning sheepily at Porthos. “He didn’t say I had… to stay in the… infirmary.”   
“But I do.” Porthos growled and pushing the cup of medicine against his brothers lips. This idiot should rest and heal before he would run around the Garrison like a lunatic again.


	17. Muffled Screams - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18: Muffled Screams.
> 
> I couldn't stop myself from some post-Savoy whump. Sorry not sorry.

He had been tortured before. Beaten into unconsciousness, pushed under water until his lungs burned for air or kept in darkness for days.  
But this was different. This was worse.

There was no way he could escape the torture. There wasn’t the option to fight against his torturers or to hope for a rescue from brothers.  
He couldn’t even pray that death would save him from this ordeal, because physically there was no threat against his life.  
Aramis hadn’t got a clue how to get out of his misery. He had taken a lodging faraway from the Garrison after he had been healed enough to leave the bed. Like this, at least the others wouldn’t notice. But he also was alone.

And it was the worth when he was alone. In the evening, when he laid down and closed his eyes. When he tried to give his body the long needed rest, they came. There hadn’t been a night without them before his inner eyes. Screaming, bleeding, dying.

It was slightly better to stay awake. And that he did, as long as possible. But even if it was better, it wasn’t okay yet. When the darkness consumed all the light, leaving only a few flickering candles behind that threw dangerous dancing shadows on the walls, they visited him. Standing in front of his window, staring into his room, right inside his soul with their white, empty eyes. He always felt colder then, as if he was back in Savoy. Or like a ghost just had entered his house.

He had always got a fire going, but it was never enough.  
By now, he had made curtains out of old sheets to shield from their view. He had bought as many candles as possible to keep the darkness out. He tried to stay awake and his mind occupied with reading or praying. But there was always a moment where they managed to break into his head, grabbing his heart with icy fingers and squeezing the air out his lungs.  
And when he became too tired and his body finally gave in to get at least a few hours of sleep he lived through the massacre again and again until his lungs burned from screaming and his sheets were clamp from sweat.

Aramis soon noticed that it got easier in company. At least when he stayed awake. So he started visiting the taverns and when even these got empty and left him alone in the darkest hours of the night, he visited a Lady. There was always a woman waiting for him, no matter how late he would come, someone would be there. He was careful to leave before he could fall back asleep with a beautiful lady in his arms. He didn’t want to frighten them, didn’t want anyone to see.  
He found a steady rhythm and somehow lived through the upcoming weeks like this. And even though the rings under his eyes were dark and his hands always a little bit too shaky and his mind somehow muddled, he managed to get through without further accidents.

Until his first longer mission since the massacre came. It was a simple mission but they would have to right with six men to the countryside to escort some duke to the King. It was a three days ride to the Duke – meaning six nights to sleep in the presence of others, sleeping in Inns that weren’t familiar to him or outside.  
He had felt sick all night and morning before their departure, his hands were clammy inside his gloves and there was this thick rope wrapped around his chest, closing ever tighter with each hour passing.  
The saddle felt heavier in his arms as he heaved it up on Esmé and tightened the straps. The others were no where to be seen yet – probably still getting breakfast. He didn’t want to eat anything. So, to have something to do, he readied the five horses he knew where belonging to the men joining him. And just as he was ready with the last horse Rafael, Luca, Porthos, Gabriel and Athos were coming to the stables, greeting him cheerful.

“This will be great. Six days enjoying the beautiful weather with nothing to worry about.” Porthos grinned and mounted up, following the lead of Athos. 

Aramis just nodded in response as he also mounted up. He got a lot to worry about.  
….  
They rode until the sun started to set. Relatively close to Paris there were still many villages and twice as many Inn’s they could sleep in. Aramis was glad that they wouldn’t have to sleep outside, but after checking the coins Treville had given them, they agreed to only meet two rooms.  
Would he had the money, Aramis would have paid for an own room from his own income – but just as every other soldier, he was glad to have enough coins to buy food and pay his lodging. So he had to settle in a room with Athos and Luca, while the other three shared a room up the hallway.  
Luca fell asleep once he laid down, unlike Athos and Aramis. Aramis settled down with a book on one of the chairs, desperate to stay awake as long as possible without being conspicuous. He cursed Athos who obviously didn’t need much sleep either and had spread two maps on the bed he already sat on. 

Aramis couldn’t help but to look over to him from time to time. Thinking with a clenching heart that this once had been his task, his position. It once had been his decision which route to take and it had been him who would advise Treville in which Soldiers were best suited for a mission.  
But he had failed them all. Since the massacre Treville had pushed him away, hadn’t even tried to give him some of his responsibility back. And Aramis didn’t want it – he thought. He didn’t want to be guilty for something like Savoy ever again. But he couldn’t deny the sudden jealously that rose as he watched Athos. He noticed how the new lieutenant drew lines on the card on which routes they could take and made crosses where bandits or other risks would wait. 

Aramis fought the urge to give him tips, even though he thought he could have done the work much quicker. But then he shook the thoughts off. He was being unfair to Athos.

“You should sleep too.” The otherwise silent lieutenant suddenly spoke up and rolled up his maps. “We will rise early in the morning.” Aramis smiled weakly and forced himself to a nod.

He waited for Athos to lie down before he dropped down beside him, turning his back to the lieutenant and staring at the last burning candle in the room.  
….  
Aramis was glad to have survived the night without falling asleep, but his body took revenge by noon. He could barely stay upright in his saddle, his eyes falling shut every now and then before he would rip them open in shock.  
He almost felt thankful as they stopped for the night in a small clearing, surrounded by trees and a small creek not far away. 

Once he had dismounted he felt slightly more awake, moving helping wonders. So he helped Luca to struck a fire while Porthos and Gabriel were hunting and Athos searched for more firewood. He almost managed to ignore the hovering trees, to ignore the lurking darkness between their thick trunks or the rustling sounds of animals running through the bushes.  
Once the fire was burning high and Porthos and Luca had returned with three rabbits to roast, he sat as close by the flames as possible without being burned. He felt some of the coldness leaving his body, but he never managed to feel warm.

He forced himself to eat some meat to sustain his strength and then nominated himself for the first watch. He thought about not switching it and just to stay awake a second night but soon he felt his eyelids drop again and exhaustion winning over.  
The sound of bird flying through the trees startled him from the doze he had fell in, causing his heart to race in his chest and reminding him of the dangers out there. No, if he couldn’t be trusted to guard them properly he had to wake someone.

So he woke Porthos, who had earlier volunteerd for second watch and laid down on his bedroll by the fire.  
But as much as he needed it, he couldn’t sleep. Once his eyes fell close, there was a sound startling him awake or one of many gruesome images flickering in his mind. He couldn’t risk to wake them all by having a nightmare but he knew he had to sleep. His body would not be able to stay up much longer.  
So, with his back turned to Porthos, he took one of his gloves and his belt. He tried to be as silent and inconspicuous with his movements.  
Once he was done, without Porthos noticing anything, he allowed his body to fall into a restless sleep.  
…

Porthos had just woke Athos for his turn as a muffled scream ripped through the otherwise silent night. Both their eyes searched for whatever could have caused the sound, hands already on the hilts of their swords.  
Another scream followed soon and then, in the flickering light of the flames, they noticed Aramis trashing from on side to the other side.  
They both shared a uncertain look. Should they wake him or act like they hadn’t noticed? Aramis could feel ashamed if he knew they had noticed him having a nightmare.  
But as his trashing became stronger they agreed silently to investigate. Once close enough to see details in the dim light, they froze on the spot. 

“Is this-“  
“A selfmade gag? Yes.” Athos frowned, kneeling down beside Aramis and placing a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. This would at least explain the muffled screams.  
“Why?” Porthos asked, worry openly shown on his face as he sat down on the other side of Aramis.  
“So we wouldn’t hear him scream.” Athos explained, a hint of sadness in his normally composed voice. 

Porthos shook his head. Aramis should not have done this to himself and should not be scared or ashamed of them seeing him having a nightmare. Every men had them, soldiers especially.  
“He must have known that he wouldn’t sleep peacefully.” Porthos then observed.

Athos nodded and as another scream broke through the glove struck in Aramis’ mouth, held tight by his belt wrapped around his head, he shook the man’s shoulder.  
The reaction was immediate. Aramis sat up straight, his hands wrapping around Athos’ arm with a deathlike grip. His eyes were wild and sweaty strains hung into his face.  
“It’s okay. Just us.” Porthos hushed, hands already opening the belt around the marksman’s head. Slowly, Aramis came back to his senses and once the gag was removed he looked down ashamed.

“I’m sorry.” He rasped, voice hoarse from screaming.  
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Except for gagging yourself.” Porthos shook his head in disbelief at the action.  
“I didn’t want –“ Aramis stopped midsentence not really knowing what he didn’t want. To wake them? To embarass himself?  
“Just don’t do it again.” Athos said softly. “I know we don’t know each other well, but you don’t have to feel ashamed for anything like this.”

“Exactly.” Porthos agreed. “You can talk to us, if you like. Or we just sit here?”

Aramis didn’t know what to say, he didn’t want to speak if he was true to himself.  
But company didn’t sound so bad. It was always worse when he was alone.  
But since Porthos and Athos knew about his troubles, he had never been alone again. And it was better like this. Better in their company.


	18. Asphyxiation - Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 19: Aspyhxiation.
> 
> Athos suffers from a dire mistake of Aramis.

“It should heal in a few weeks. But till then I order you to rest it. And you should take something against the pain. At least for the first days.” Aramis turned his back to him to search in the shelf for the right vial.  
Athos wanted to argue, to say that it actually wasn’t that bad. But not even he could ignore the pulsating pain rushing through his arm in veins. He knew he wouldn’t be able to close a eye with the pain and he desperately needed some sleep.  
This mission just had gone completely wrong. For all of them. His gaze shifted towards the other second beds with the sleeping forms of d’Artagnan and Porthos on them.  
Aramis had treated them first as their injuries were more several than just a broken arm. Athos was glad at least Aramis hadn’t been hurt too bad. With doctor Lemay away on some journey, they otherwise would have had to get help from some unknown butcher-like medic.  
“They will heal too.” Aramis suddenly spoke, a comforting smile on his face as he noticed Athos worried glance. The swordsman just nodded. He truly believed him, but nevertheless it was never easy to see your brothers injured or sick.  
“Take a sip of this one. Lemay had brought it back from one of his trips to the countryside. It’s new and supposed to stop the pain without making feeling dizzy. I’ve tried it myself already.”  
Athos nodded. He didn’t understand much from herbs and all these gruesome smelling liquids but he trusted Aramis. So he took a small sip and gave Aramis the bottle back.  
The effect was almost immediate.

Athos had just pulled his legs up on the bed and leaned against the pillows in his back as a tingling sensation spread in his lungs. He coughed and found he couldn’t stop. His lungs burned and he sacked forward in order to stop the cramps in his stomach that came from coughing too hard.  
Aramis was by his side immediately, a comforting hand on his back rubbing gentle circles while a other held onto his chest, trying to keep him upright.  
“Athos? You alright?”

Athos wanted to answer something, assure his brother that he probably just swallowed wrong but just another cough came out followed by a restricting feeling in his chest. Once the cough had weakened he tried to breath in but found that way too little air filled his lungs. His eyes grew wide in panic as breathing became hard work. He heard Aramis course and suddenly his hands were gone and Athos alone. He panicked, desperately trying to get some oxygen as it grew harder and harder to breath.  
He noticed movements by his side, but everything around him became blurry, his eyes watered and soon tears fell down his face. He was confused. He didn’t feel an urge to cry, even though panic had consumed him.  
Then, suddenly, there were cold hands on his face. It was Aramis, he recognized his voice but the words didn’t reach him. Normally Aramis hands weren’t cold. He would have frowned, weren’t he so busy with gasping for air. He realized, it weren’t Aramis’ hands that were cold but his face that was hot. What was happening to him?

The hands on his face became less gentle as they prodded his mouth open and then there were fingers inside, going in way too deep. Athos gagged and tried free himself of the unwelcomed grip, but Aramis wasn’t giving in and pushed deeper until Athos couldn’t it in anymore.  
There suddenly was a bucket in his lap in which he vomited. The gentle hands were back at his back and the reassuring voice of his brother ringed in his ears.  
But, as unpleasant the experience may had been, he found that he could breath a little bit easier now.  
“Drink.” He then heard Aramis before a cup was pressed to his lips. Athos gulped the content down, finding that it was only water a not one of the bitter tasting herbs. He felt exhausted, his head cloudy and heavy as he leaned back against the pillows. 

“What was that?” He rasped, throat burning as he spoke.  
Aramis sighed, his hands brushing through his hair. One of his few tells.  
“I guess you don’t tolerate the substance I gave you. It happens sometimes. Some people suffocated after eating nuts or other have to sneeze and get burning eyes once they’re close to animals. I fear it were the painkiller that caused you this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given it to you without learning more about it before. I’ shouldn’t-“

“Sssh.” Athos closed his eyes against the thundering pain in his head. “You did nothing wrong. I’m fine, yes? And that’s all that counts.”

Aramis sighed but didn’t argue anymore. As Athos drifted off he threw the vial from Lemay away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I will soon show you what had happened on the mission that had lead to the injured Musketeers!
> 
> But first there will be a part continuing from where this one stopped.


	19. Trembling - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 20: Trembling.
> 
> Aramis is beyond exhaustion. But Constance is there.

Constance placed the basket under one arm to open the door to the infirmary with he other one. She was glad it were just washed sheets and some fresh apples in it and nothing too heavy or else the walk from her house towards the Garrison could have gotten unpleasant.  
Once she got to hear what had happened she had packed the things she knew would be needed and rushed over to the Musketeers regiment.  
She pushed the door open and sidestepped through, putting the basket aside before closing the door again. The air in the room was thick, but she knew it would have his reasons when Aramis or whichever doctor they had summoned had kept it closed.  
She first noticed three filled beds, all three men on them in various states of health. As much as she could see they were all breathing and not battling any fevers. Then her gaze drifted to the side where a table and a shelf stood against the wall. With his back to her was Aramis. Hands placed on the wooden desk, head hanging low, she only heard his shallow breaths.  
“Are you okay?” She asked quietly to not startle him as she stepped closer.  
Aramis probably hadn’t noticed her entering and hadn’t heard her now as he didn’t move an inch or gave an answer.  
“Aramis. It’s me, Constance.” She then announced a bit louder and stepped to his side. Since she had came closer to the Musketeers regiment, especially to these four soldiers, she had seen men in shock or confusion more often than she liked.  
She noticed his arms trembling, sending tremors through his whole body, while his chin rested against his chest. His eyes were closed tightly as he breathed through whatever was paining or worrying him.

“Aramis.” Constance said again, now more forcefully. She didn’t dare to touch him yet. She had seen him once in a similar state before. It was after all the happenings with Savoy and Marsac, who he had to kill, as he had fallen in some kind of shock. Then, she had approached him not as careful as now and he had latched out at her. 

“Aramis!” She was relieved as the marksman was finally ripped out his world, his head snapping up and glassy eyes staring at her in confusion.  
“Constance. When did you arrive?” He looked around the room with a frown on his face.  
“A minute ago. You were somehow… gone.” She gently grabbed his shaking arm and guided him towards a chair.  
“Sit.” She ordered but still was surprised as Aramis did as asked without discussion. He more fell onto the chair than sat down controlled, his legs stretched out. He first put his hands on his thigh, but once he saw them shaking he crossed his arms in front of chest – hoping to hide it.  
“Are you injured?” Constance then asked as she filled a glass of water.  
“No. Not severe at least.” He answered truthfully. His bones and muscles arched and he would surely spot a few nice bruises tomorrow, but there wasn’t anything dangerous.

“Where is Lemay?” She then asked after handing him the cup and examining the three sleeping men. Athos had a broken arm which had been set, d’Artagnan’s head and shoulder had been wrapped in white bandages and Porthos’ laid on his stomach, with his back also bound in white. This had to be a lot of work.  
“Away. A journey.” Aramis muttered and stared at the cup in his trembling hands. He had tried to take a gulp as Constance was otherwise occupied but had only spilled some of the content.  
“Were you tending to them all alone?” She asked in shock, hands on her hips and shaking her head furiously.  
“Jacque, the stable boy, had helped me.” That the boy could only hold the thrashing men down and do not any more of his work stayed unspoken.  
“Where are the other Musketeers?” Constance wanted to know. That couldn’t be possible! They couldn’t just let one man alone to tend to three injured men. Not after he had been with them on a failed mission.  
“Palace. There’s some feast.” Aramis answered drily. He was too tired to answer all these question. Why did she have to ask so much? His brain felt as if it would jump out of his scull any moment and she wanted to know things.

Constance sighed, dragging another chair to sit on the opposite of him. “You should rest, Aramis. Have you eaten anything yet?”

He shook his head and frowned slightly. He wasn’t sure when he had last eaten, it’s been a while. A day? Two? He wasn’t sure and didn’t want to think about it, it was too exhausting. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

“No wonder you’re shaking. When was the last time you have slept properly?”  
Aramis shrugged. It was when they had left for the mission, but right now he wasn’t sure how many days it had been.  
Suddenly there was movement in front of him as Constance stood up and stalked towards the basket by the door. She pulled out an apple and handed it him before she walked over to a window to open it.  
“Don’t. They will get cold.” Aramis murmured tiredly, but nevertheless bit into the fruit. He hadn’t the strength left to argue with Constance, who sighed and retreated from the window.  
“Lie down after you’ve eaten.” She then ordered and got out some of the fresh sheets she had brought with her to ready another bed for him.  
She then put the other sheets over Pothos and d’Artagnan to keep them extra warm. Aramis had barely took two bites off the apple before he staggered to his feet.  
Fearing that he would stumble or just fall unconscious where he stood, Constance rushed over to him and placed a arm around his waist.  
“I really should stay awake. Look after them.” Aramis mumbled as she guarded him to the bed.  
“I will stay, alright? I wake you when something happens. Promise.” She grinned triumphantly as Aramis nodded slightly. It had never been that easy before to force him to his own luck.  
The marksman fumbled with the laces of his boots, but his trembling fingers wouldn’t cooperate.  
“Let me.” Constance made quick work of the boots and then helped him put his legs onto the mattress and places a blanket over his trembling form.  
“I will get a fire started.” She announced, worrying about the coldness of the man’s limbs she had witness as she had guided him to the bed. 

But Aramis was already out cold, finally relaxing and some of the tremors lessening.


	20. Laced Drink - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 21: Laced Drink.
> 
> It wasn't the wine that made him feel dizzy.

Aramis frowned as the flames blurred into on another, ending to be just on orange spot. He blinked a few times and looked around the room a few times but it didn’t get better.   
He put the cup beside the almost empty bottle and pushed himself out of the armchair just to fall right back into it as his legs gave in.   
He tried again, this time with more success. Even though his legs felt heavier as they should have been and his head lighter than ever, he managed to stay upright by prompting himself against the wall.   
What was wrong with him? 

He took a wobbly step forward, almost falling down again as he stumbled over his own feet.   
As he leaned against the wall and tried to breath through the terrible feeling of dizziness he felt how dry his mouth had become even though he had just drank?  
It was a short moment of clarity in his misted mind. The wine. The wine they had been gifted from the Duke d’Orleans. The same wine his brothers had gotten too.  
He had to warn them.  
Gathering his strength Aramis pushed himself off the wall and stumbled to the door. Glad that he just had to push the door instead of pulling, he managed to open it and staggered outside. The fresh air was like ice on his overheated skin and as rain hit his skin he had to fight the urge to catch the water with his mouth. God, he was so thirsty.  
He had almost forgotten about his mission to inform his brothers as their laughter beamed across the courtyard. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind with restrained success and clang to the railing as he walked over to the stairs.  
As he reached them, he finally was able to see his brothers, sitting on their usual table with three opened bottles in front of them.  
“No!” He shouted, trying to get down the stairs faster as he saw Athos putting the bottle to his lips.  
Aramis soon learned the hard way that running down stairs in his state was a bad idea. He lost his footage and fell the last three steps down, landing on the wet ground with a thud and a pained groan.   
At least his spectacular entrance had the desired effect and Athos put the bottle down, frowning at him with concern. D’Artagnan was already by his side, trying to hide a laugh. 

“Have you already had too much wine?” He asked, a grin on his lips as he tried to help Aramis stand. But since he had unintentionally laid down, Aramis didn’t want to get up again. The throbbing in his head had lessened a bit, even though his body had more problems to orientate it self and he suddenly felt sick.   
There was to time for warning as he started retching beside d’Artagnan’s feet.  
“How much did you have?” Porthos asked, voice now laced with more concern than humour as he took in the poor state his friend was in. D’Artagnan too had lost the grin and had now his hand placed on his brother’s back to give him some kind of comfort.

“The wine.” Aramis breathed after he was done, turning to lie on his back and let the cold rain cool down his skin.  
“Don’t drink it.” He added as he noticed that the other’s needed more explanation than two words.  
“Why not? Because you can’t tolerate some alcohol?” Porthos huffed and tried to bring some humour back in the situation.   
Aramis shook his head, wincing at the motion brought back the pain.  
“It’s laced.” He explained, eyes now closed.  
He was glad that he had already vomited and with that – hopefully - brought the most of whatever poison it was out of his system, because Aramis noticed how he slipped away slowly. He knew his brothers wouldn’t have known what to do, but he hoped that the worst was already over and he would just need to sleep it off.  
“Control… breathing.” He only whispered before his mind shut out completely.


	21. Halucinations - Aramis

He sat on the floor, trousers wet from the snow beneath him. He had long lost any feeling in his feet and hands, who had taken on a blueish shade. He was glad his teeth had stopped shattering, even though he should have known that it was a bad sign. But at the moment, Aramis knew nothing. His mind was a muddled mess, too clouded that he could think probably.  
All he knew was that he had to stay.   
Protect his fallen brothers from any more harm.  
And he knew that he couldn’t leave, even if he wanted to. Every now and then blood trickled into his eye from the head wound he had achieved. At least the cold hemmed the blood loss and the pain.  
Still there was this pounding in his skull that just wouldn’t stop. After the ravens had left hours ago, it was the only sound accompanying him in the otherwise deathly silent clearing.   
His brothers hadn’t made a sound since hours. The once who hadn’t died right in the battle had succumbed to their wounds in the hours after that. Aramis had been helpless without any medical knowledge or supplies. He had pressed onto their wound uselessly until exhaustion had taken over, bounding him to the trunk were he leant against heavily.  
“Aramis.” At first he thought he imagined the sound, but soon he heard snow crouching beneath feet again, then his name a second time. He would recognize this voice anywhere.  
“Capt’n.” Aramis slurred, fighting to lift his head to look the arriving man into the eyes. There they were, gentle and comforting as ever but now there was something else too. A sadness Aramis had never seen before.   
“I’m here, you can rest now my son.” Treville crouched down beside him, his fingers prodding at the wound on his head.  
“We’ve brought help. We’ll get you home.”   
As Aramis looked over the Captain’s shoulder he noticed more Musketeers, living ones, filling the clearing and carrying his dead brothers to carts.  
“I can help.” Aramis assured and tried to push himself to his feet, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate.  
Treville shook his head before loosening his cape and draping it over Aramis. “Rest. You’ve done enough.”

Aramis wanted to argue that he hadn’t done enough – because if he had, they wouldn’t all have died – but he was already dozing off.  
As he awoke next he didn’t feel cold any more. But with a sinking feeling he had to discover that he still was in the clearing with the corpses of his brothers. And Treville and the others were gone.

They had left them.  
A heavy feeling of betrayal settled on his chest, joining the one Marsac had caused as he had just walked away.  
What had he done to deserve this?  
Aramis looked up, searching for the sky, for God, to give him answers. But there were nothing but trees hovering above him in oppressive stillness.  
Involuntary, he felt a tear trickle down his cheek, growing ice cold within seconds.  
He would die out there, beside the rotting bodies of his comrades. Alone and abandoned.


	22. Bleeding out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Musketeer is on a desperate mission of revenge.

He gritted his teeth against the burning pain in his arm, hanging down uselessly while his hand clutched at the gaping wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He knew he hadn’t much time left, that he needed to find help soon if he didn’t want to bleed out out there completely on his own.

And not only would he never want to die in a way like this but moreover, what kept him upright, kept him fighting, was the promise he had given.

_And if it’s the last thing that I do. I bring you down._

Gustav, obviously scared by the fierce look in his eyes and the poison in his voice, had then made sure to make it harder to keep his promise.

_So I bear my skin._

The leader of the bandits they had searched for weeks had lashed out with his sword without warning, cutting through flesh, muscles and veins until the blade hit the bone.

He hadn’t been able to hold back a scream then, tearing through the night as he fell to his knees.  
As he had looked up a moment later, Gustav and his men were gone.

Since then he was stumbling through the forest, searching for the man responsible for not only his own injuries but also the not-only-physical wounds of his loved ones.

_And I count my sins._

He wondered how all of this would have worked out if he hadn’t gone out to search for Gustav and his men and had stayed behind. He would have been there when the criminals had attached the village where _she_ was resting in the room of an Inn. He could have protected her and all the others that had been injured in the ambush.

_And I close my eyes. And I take it in._

The mess they were in was just as much his own responsibility as Gustav’s. He should have acted differently, should have changed their route. Should have done everything except for the things he had done.

_And I'm bleeding out_

_I'm bleeding out for you._

He wondered if she was still alive, prayed that she did. Because, if there was one thing he knew in this god damned world, it was that he would rather die himself than see her suffering anymore.

_When the day has come_

The blood still ran freely down his arm and he wondered if his time had come. He didn’t want, no one really wants to die. But if it was supposed to be like this, he would be ready. As a soldier, death was a constant comrade, hovering behind every corner. He shouldn’t be sad or scared but he couldn’t deny the feeling, that he was still too young to leave already.

_But I've lost my way around._

After being too lost in his thoughts for too long, he thought he had lost the trace. But as he finally looked up again, ears scanning for something tell-telling, he heard it loud and clearly.

_And everything is screaming._

A new wave of pain pulsated through his arm as he renewed he efforts to follow the hushed voices of what he guessed were Gustav’s and his men’s.

_I will reach inside just to find my heart is beating._

His lungs burned from the cold air rushing in and out while his heart hammered in his chest, trying to fight against the blood loss and the exhaustion. It would not be long until it would slow down, and then, stop eventually.

_You tell me to hold on._

He thought about her, lying wounded in the room. Waiting for him to return and do what his job had been. Protect her. He had to keep going, had to full fill his promise and then return to her.

_But innocence is gone_

_And what was right is wrong_

_'Cause I'm bleeding out._

A fury swept through his chest as he thought about how wrong all of this was. It shouldn’t have been him bleeding out and fighting for his life. It should have been Gustave, clutching desperately on a deathly wound. But it wasn’t and that was so completely wrong. He had to take things in hand and change them.

_Said if the last thing that I do is to bring you down._

_When the hour is nigh and hopelessness is sinking in, and the wolves all cry_

_When your eyes are red and emptiness is all you know._

It was the moment he saw them. They had stopped for the night, obviously thinking that they had shook him off. He grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark night like the ones of a wolf looking at his prey.

There were three of them, normally heavily armed. But they were stupid. Putting their weapons aside to sleep comfortably, only one man staying awake to watch out. They felt save.

He waited until they were settled, even though his time was precious and slowly running out. He had to do this one thing right.

As only the watch was left awake, he surged from the trees, throwing his dagger and hitting him in the chest. The man was dead before he hit the floor.

Unfortunately, Gustav and the second man hadn’t slept as deeply as he had hoped. They woke at the gasp of pain of their guard, immediately jumping to their feet.

He had to hold his sword in his left hand, as his right arm wouldn’t have been able to hold a sword. But he had seen them fighting and new that he was better. He could do this. He could make right what he had done wrong.

So he lashed out at the other man, engaging him in a short fighting. The man had only his main-gauche as he hadn’t been able to retrieve his sword in time. So he ended soon on the tip of his sword, gurgling as blood spluttered out of his mouth.

He didn’t watch the man fall to the ground but turned to Gustav immediately. The Bandit had managed to get to his weapons during the fight, pointing his sword right at him.

He grinned and attacked. He was slower to react than usually and it was harder to coordinate the sword with his weaker hand, but still Gustav hadn’t have a change from the start.

He was a brute, but once swords were brought to a fist-fight he was helpless. Using the blade more like a butcher than a swordsman, he managed a few parades before the Musketeer’s sword found it’s target and pierced through his stomach.

Though deathly, Gustav would have to live quite long until he would succumb to the pain and bloodless.

But once he was done with his job and had fulfilled his promise, the adrenaline left the Musketeer’s body and he feel to his knees, his heavy legs not carrying him any longer.

He looked down on his sleeve, blood stained and wet and gulped.

Maybe his time had come.

There was nothing he could have done, so he waited. Waited for death or his brothers to find him.

He wondered who would arrive first.


	23. Secret Injury - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 24 - Secret Injury.
> 
> To quote Porthos: Aramis is an idiot.

It had been around midday as it had happened.  
The six men guarding the gate to the palace didn’t stand a chance against the small army of mercenaries. They were killed fast and efficiently, leaving the entrance towards the Louvre open for whoever wished to enter.  
The sounds of the fight had alerted the Palace-Guards as well as the Musketeers inside, but as scattered as they were in the enormous building, the small groups of Soldiers weren’t a real challenge for the at least thirty men of Mercenaries.   
They were skilled and obviously had a good knowledge of the Palace as they fought determined to reach the King’s Chambers.  
Having taken notice of the intruders, Athos, the Captain of the Musketeers, had ordered them all together to the corridor from which you could reach both, the Queen’s and the King’s chambers.  
They weren’t as many men as hoped, though. Many had already fallen or were engaged in a hopeless fight against the mercenaries. Alone, they had no chance to survive but as a group they could win this battle.  
“Aramis, d’Artagnan get the Queen and bring her into His Majesty’s chambers as well.” Athos ordered as the sounds of clashing steel came closer. It would be easier to protect them when they were on one point. Like this, they would only have to defend one door instead of two.  
The two addressed Musketeers hurried away, not caring about any etiquette as they burst into the Queen’s rooms, finding her sitting on a bench, two Palace Guards by her side.   
They bowed hurriedly, merely nodding their heads, as they stood before her panting.  
“You have to come with us, Your Majesty.” Aramis explained, pointing vaguely into the direction of the King’s chambers.   
Queen Anne understood and rose from the bench. She was worried, Aramis could see it in the tight lines around her eyes, but she tried to not let it be seen.   
Flanked by the two Guards and Musketeers they hurried through the halls. Just as they reached the King’s door, the sound of fighting intensified suddenly. Athos voice echoed through the building, ordering his men to their posts. The would try to force the mercenaries back to the stairs to earn a advantage in height as there were less Musketeers than opponents. Aramis ripped the door open to the King’s room while d’Artagnan looked out for any intruders.  
“Stay inside, Your Majesties. No harm will come to you.” Aramis then promised before he closed the door again, guarding it from the outside. No matter what, this door was not to be opened by any other than the Musketeers themselves.  
…  
Porthos grunted in pain as the blade of one of his opponents slashed across his arm, leaving a gaping wound and forcing him to let his main gauche fall. With a new stoked fury he shoved one of the mercenaries back into the next one, both of them losing their balance and falling own the stairs, pulling a third man into their doom.   
There wasn’t much time to enjoy this small success as a familiar sword skittered to his feet. As he followed the direction where it came from he saw Athos, unarmed and surrounded by two opponents. Porthos ran towards them but could only watch with dread as a blade pierced the Captains’ side. Just then he was able to slash at one of the mercenaries and tackle the other down.  
Athos must have been lucky. He picked up the sword of a dead man and engaged into the next battle, even though his movements were much slower and hemmed by the pain in his side. 

Too engaged in their own fights of survival, none of them had noticed the men slipping past the Musketeers.  
It was now eight against four, as the Mercenaries reached d’Artagnan, Aramis and the Palace Guards.  
Aramis kissed the crucifix dangling from his neck before he stepped into a fighting stance, fire burning in his eyes as he grinned at their opponents.   
D’Artagnan looked more furious, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword as he just waited for the opportunity to kill these monsters.  
After that, it was only chaos.  
Men were falling, dying. But more followed, rushing into the close quarters of the hallway, urging the Musketeers back towards the door. The Palace Guards had fallen long ago.  
They had their pressed against the wood by now, arms heavy and burning from the exertion. Having lost the ability to move freely, both Aramis and d’Artagnan had to change their usual way to fight.   
They lashed out, kicked and stabbed but there was no end in sight as more and more men came streaming in.  
Aramis heart sank further with every man arriving. Had their brothers all been defeated? 

A thud beside him alarmed him, only to see d’Artagnan’s head being smashed against the door, the lad crumpling to the ground immediately. 

Now, it was only Aramis separating the mercenaries from the Majesties.   
He forced his current opponent a step back, managing to stand in front of d’Artagnan to protect him from further harm.  
Aramis was nothing but a wave of movements, hacking, stabbing, slashing while blood and sweat wetted his clothes. He didn’t feel the exhaustion any more as desperation took over his body. He had to keep fighting, he had to survive, he had to save them.  
Damn, where are his brothers?! 

He kicked one man into the stomach, before smashing another man’s head against the wall. Forgotten all etiquette and finesse, Aramis had to fight with all the dirty tricks Porthos had showed him.  
By now he had to look out where he stepped to not stumble over bodies. As he wondered how long he could hold on like this, rescue appeared in the form of the First Minister and six Musketeers.   
It was fast work from then on, the streaming of the mercenaries had stopped a while ago and with eight men they killed the last ones fast.  
As Aramis pulled his sword out of the chest of the last opponent, he sagged against the door with relief. “Thank you, Minister.” He forced himself to a small, exhausted smile his eyes shining with relief as he watched Treville giving orders.  
“Even though a man of your rank should not be fighting that dirty.” Aramis added, earning a huff from Treville.  
“A man must do what a man must do.” With that, he pushed Aramis to the side gently and opening the door. The Majesties were inside, huddled together but unharmed.  
Aramis watched the Minister vanish in the chambers, then kneeled beside d’Artagnan, slapping the lad’s cheek gently. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

The Gascon groaned but opened his eyes slowly, blinking at Aramis in confusion. “What-“  
“We won but you’ve got a nasty concussion.” Aramis answered shortly. As much as he wanted to look after d’Artagnan now he had to search for the others. “Stay here and rest, okay? I will come back soon.”

Not wanting for an answer from the confused man, Aramis pushed himself to his feet and walked towards the stairs.  
…  
Kneeling between dead or severely injured men were Porthos and Athos. Porthos was currently pressing down on Athos wound with his good arm, the other one hanging down his side uselessly and bleeding sluggishly.   
“Thank God! Athos, look.” A broad smile appeared on the bulky man’s face as he watched Aramis walking down the stairs. Though the marksman was supporting himself against the wall, he seemed mostly fine. Exhaustion was written on his sweaty face but beside this, he didn’t look injured.  
Athos forced his heavy lids open again, searching for whatever Porthos had seen. “Aramis.” He gasped, relief clearly shown on the Captain’s face. That Aramis was alive had to mean that the Majesties were too.  
“I’m sorry.” Athos added in a raspy whisper as Aramis kneeled down beside him to inspect the wound. 

“There’s nothing you have to be sorry for.” Aramis answered calmly, his fingers prodding on the stab wound with worry.  
Athos wanted to argue, explain to him that they had let him and d’Artagnan down.  
“The lad?” Porthos then asked, obviously being able to read Athos’ thoughts.   
“Concussed but alive. He will heal, just like you two.”   
Aramis was already wrapping his sash around Athos’ waist and his eyes now scanning Porthos’ arm. “Both of you will need stitching.”

Porthos nodded, tight lines forming on his face at the thought. But he would not argue with Aramis, not now, not after this.  
…  
They were in the royal infirmary. With the help of some servants and Musketeers, they had carried Athos and d’Artagnan and all the other injured men into it.  
Lemay was running from bed to bed, treating to the worst injuries while Aramis had stitched up Porthos and Athos and was now cleaning d‘Artagnan’s head wound.  
While Athos was fast asleep, Porthos watched his friend with worry. The marksman was swaying on his feet, his eyes barely open as he wrapped a bandage around the Gascon’s head. 

“Rest, Aramis.” Porthos ordered, as their field medic was about to rush to Lemay’s help again.  
“I can’t. They need my help.” He looked over all the occupied beds, sadness glistering in his eyes.  
Porthos shook his head. “Lemay has everything well in hand. Rest.”

Sighing, but too tired to argue anymore, Aramis sat down in a chair by Porthos’ bed.   
He watched over his brothers until all three of them were sleeping tightly. Just then he staggered back to his feet.  
He pocketed one of the needles that laid on a table nearby the door and took a bottle of alcohol as well as a bandage before he slipped out of the door unnoticed.  
He stumbled towards a pantry close by, closing the door behind him and lighting a candle.  
Breathing hard, Aramis pulled up his shirt to reveal a deep gash right above his hip.   
He gulped down the bile that rose in his throat as he thought about what he would have to do to himself. But he could not go back to Lemay. The doctor would report it to Athos and he and his brothers would be furious with him for hiding the injurie. But there had been no time to tell them, there had been no time for him to be treated as there were men that needed his help more.   
His brothers would not have allowed him to treat them whilst he was bleeding himself, so he had no choice.   
Biting down on thee collar of his doublet, he poured the alcohol over the wound, grunting in pain and throwing his head back against the wall.   
He breathed through the pain before his trembling fingers threaded the needle. 

It wasn’t easy to hold his wound closed with the one hand and push a needle through his own flesh at the same time while fighting the pain, but there was no other way to do it. After each stab he had to take a short break, taking every now and then a sip of the alcohol before he could continue.  
It was the last stitch that gave him the rest. Knowing that it was finally over and having done all he could, his body finally fell unconscious.  
…  
A groan left his lips as he came back to his senses slowly and the pain made itself completely known for the first time. All the adrenaline had left his veins and left him more tired and hurting than before.  
“I hope it hurts, idiot.”   
The familiar voice ripped him out of his muddled state, his heart missing a beat as he turned his head around, noticing that he wasn’t in the small pantry but back in the infirmary. Porthos was sitting by his side, glaring at him with fury.  
“Treville has found you. After you’ve stitched your own wound.” He explained the unspoken question.  
Aramis gulped and turned his head back to face the ceiling.  
“I couldn’t-“

“Oh you could. You could’ve gone to Lemay, you could’ve told us. You SHOULD have told us. You self-destroying idiot. All this injury-hiding and pretending to be fine will one day be your death!”

Aramis’ mouth suddenly felt dry and his tongue too heavy as he closed his eyes against the regret. “I’m sorry. But I just had to help you first. I know you don’t like it and I know it can be dangerous but I had it under control. And I just couldn’t watch you suffer.”

“Idiot.” Porthos repeated, but the fury had left his voice as he poured some water into a cup an held it to Aramis’ lips.


	24. Humiliation - Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 25: Humiliation
> 
> On fanfiction.net I've once published a work with Aramis losing one of his legs in battle. This is another part of the puzzle belonging to the story.

It was like a parade of shame.  
Once they reached the close streets of Paris the soldiers huddled on the back of the carts earned curious looks from every side.  
Aramis was trying to shield his face with his hat as much as possible but even though he didn’t look up once he felt their eyes burning on him and heard the more or less hushed whispers.  
The people weren’t threatening them in any way, nor way they shaming them on purpose. The French citizens had much respect for the soldiers that fought on the front and for the ones who returned wounded. But as much respect they had as curious were they. And it wasn’t often that they saw thirty injured men on the back of a cart put on display.  
Aramis wished he could sit on a horse and ride away or jump off the cart and take one of the many alleys towards the Garrison. But he couldn’t and would never again can.  
He felt his chest constrict as they drove deeper into the city and into the gathering crowd.  
He couldn’t shut out the gasps and fingers pointing at them. 

Many were discussing Theo, who had lost half of his face to a explosion. But every now and then someone would come too close to the cart and see his stumb. He had tried to drape his cape over it as best as possible but it was just impossible to hide something that wasn’t there.  
“You know, my neighbour was born without a leg.” He heard a woman gossip, another man just shook his head with pity.  
It was one thing to have you face deformed like Theo. It was horrible, no question. But once it was fully healed, Theo could go back to work, stay in the Garrison as a Musketeer. He would be honoured for his bravery and the scars would just be an example of exactly this. Bravery.  
But Aramis was not only marked for eternity but would lose everything he held dear.   
He would be allowed to heal in the Garrison properly, but then, once the medic decided that he would be fit enough to leave, he would lose everything. He had no rooms to sleep in other than in the Garrison and he had no savings to buy him food.  
He would not be able to get a work. Who wanted a cripple?

As they passed a lonely beggar, huddled in the corner of the streets, clothes dirty and ragged, his bones shining through his thin skin, Aramis could see himself sitting beside the man.   
He hadn’t even noticed how close they had come to the Garrison, to his home, until the cart stopped in the courtyard.  
It was Constance and a few recruits who greeted them. All the other Musketeers were either on the front, in the Palace or infirmary.   
Cosntance’s face brightened for a second as she recognised him but fell immediately as she remembered what it had to mean when she saw Aramis on one of this carts. Unfit for duty. So heavily injured that it was no use to keep him at the front.  
She helped the men who sat in front of Aramis down before she finally came to him. Her eyes roamed over him, stopping only a short moment on his stumb before returning to his face. She forced a warm smile on her lips, her eyes shining bright as she embraced the soldier in her arms.  
“Aramis.” She breathed only pulling away to look at his war-strained face. There was a new scar on his cheek, but it would fade with the time. His hair was longer and messier than before, unkept even, just as his beard. There were gray strains in them, making him look older than he was just like the wrinkles around his eyes. But most worryingly were his eyes. Where once the sun had shone through, there was dullness. He forced his lips to something that was supposed to resemble a smile, but it looked more like a sad grimasse.   
“Come on, we will get you down and into the warmth. Serge had prepared some delicious stew for you and I’m sure he will have some fruits for his favourite Musketeer.”

Aramis didn’t answer her. Usually he would have made a cheeky remark but now he only could have said bitter words, so he decided to stay silent. He shuffled forward in the cart until he reached the edge. Supporting himself on Constance’s arm and the railing of the cart he hoped down, landing on his leg.  
He forced himself to maintain a straight face, to not show the humiliation he felt, as he had to be guided over the table where usually he and his brothers had sat on. Instead of them it was now Constance who sat down beside him and taking him with open concern and affection. She opened her mouth, wanted to ask how he was feeling, but decided against it.  
Instead she changed the topic, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “How is d’Artagnan? Is he well?”

A faint smile tugged at Aramis’ lips as he nodded. “As I left he was as agile and healthy as ever. Got some more muscles over the years though.”

Constance huffed, patting his hand gently. “And Porthos and Athos? I haven’t heard from them in ages!”

“They’re good. Athos got a lot to do but it looks good. Yes. Yes. They’re fine.” His eyes drifted towards his hands as he imagined them fighting in a battle without him on their side. Exactly this had been the reason why he had left the monastery and joined them in the war, because he didn’t want to leave them alone. And now he did just that.  
…..  
Constance was running over her usual duties in the Garrison, bringing the washed sheets back into the infirmary at the moment. She didn’t even bother to knock as the door was half-opened anyway and the doctor didn’t care much about who entered or not.  
So she walked in just to stop in the doorframe as she couldn’t hold back a gasp. The doctor was currently rebandaging Aramis’ leg – or what once had been his leg. The reddish stump of his thigh pointing right at her. 

“I’m sorry. I – I should have knocked.” As she looked up in Aramis’ face it was a mixture of pain and shame, so she decided the best was to just leave and pretend to not have seen anything. The soldier surely needed some time to come to terms with his new life.  
So, waiting hat she could re-enter the infirmary, she cleaned the tables in the courtyard. It was only mere minutes after her unwelcomed entrance that Aramis hobbled out of the infirmary, a branch helping him to keep his balance. He didn’t look her in the eyes as he passed her, head bowed.  
“Where are you going?” Constance asked, worry causing her voice to turn thin as Aramis had almost reached the gate.  
He stopped in his movements but did not turn around as he shrugged. “Out. In the city.”  
She frowned, not sure if it was a good time. He was far away from his usual strength and was already sweating from the effort of standing upright. Moreover thugs could think him any easy target.  
“I can accompany you. I have to go to the market anyway.” She smiled, already stepping to his side, but Aramis shook his head.  
“No, thank you.” With that, he left.  
…  
The moment Constance had seen his stump, everything had turned upside down in Aramis. The disgust, the fear in her eyes as she had stared at it. He had been disfigured and not even Constance was able to look over it.  
He needed some air to breath, had to get away from all the curious looks of the new recruits and the misery in the infirmary.  
He hadn’t come far, only a few streets away form the Garrison, as he had to take a break leaning against the wall of a house. His knuckles turned white as he breathed through the pain that his only barely healed wound caused.  
“What do we have here?” He recognized the booming laugh before he saw the man himself.

“Gerard.” Aramis hissed, straightening his posture as much as possible as he faced the three Red Guards coming up to him.  
“Was the spanish Musketeer scum not good enough in a little bit of swordfighting?”  
Aramis breathed out audibly as he tried to stay calm. He would not go down on their niveau. So he just turned his back to them and hobbled away. But he didn’t get far as a tight grip spun him around and pushed him back against the wall.   
“Oh, what will you do now that you can’t just run away like the coward you are?”

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line, propping himself up against the wall. “What are you even talking about, Gerard? You, who was too cowardly to even go to war? A soldier who is scared of a true battle.”

“Oh, Aramis that was hurtful. But don’t please start like this, yes? It wasn’t me who had left twenty of my men dying in the woods while I hid like a coward.”

“Don’t you dare-“ Aramis hissed, gripping his branch even tighter as he was ready to swing it against the Red Guards head.

“Oh I dare. And you now what I also dare?”   
Before Aramis could react, he was pulled away from the wall and pushed. He stumbled, not able to hold his balance on only one leg and fell to the ground.  
He cursed himself for leaving the Garrison unarmed, but of what use would a sword have been to him?   
But refusing to let this go too easily he reached for the branch and swinging it against the knee of one of the Guards, who fell to his knees with a scream. Aramis grinned satisfied and was ready to make the next strike as suddenly the tip of a sword was pushed against his throat.  
“Down with that.”

Knowing when was defeated, Aramis put down the branch but never lost eye contact with Gerard, his eyes burning with fury.

Gerard grinned and took the branch, gave Aramis a last kick against the chest, so he fell back into the mud, before he and his companion helped their injured man up and left.

Left with nothing to aid him while walking, Aramis was left to pull himself up on a wall and hobble back towards the Garrison, always using the houses to support himself. Curious onlookers he shot a look that could have killed, but once he had reached the Garrison the fight had drained out of his body.  
He was just too exhausted and too ashamed.   
Constance was by his side the moment he came through the gate, slinging his arm around her shoulder. She didn’t recommend on his mudded clothes or the tight look on his face as she helped him into his rooms.  
Just as she had placed him on his bed and had enlightened a fire, her hand already on the doorknob she turned towards him with a tight smile. “You know, you’re still better shot with a old, rusty, disformed musket than they’re with the finest weapons?”


	25. Abandoned - Aramis/All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just feels like Savoy all over again. And then it doesn't.

He didn't want to think it was true. Told himself that it was only a nightmare, one of those he had since years. But deep down in his heart he knew it was reality. A dark, twisted reality he couldn't make any sense off.  
But it was there, the snow beneath his feet, crunching as he walked on it and slowly wetting his feet in his boots. The coldness in his limbs was truly there.

And he was alone.  
They had left.  
Left him behind.

It was just like back then but so different at the same time. They hadn't died and hadn't stayed with him. They had left. Left him alone in the coldness of the dark woods.

He felt the urge to scream out, even cry as all the memories that rushed through his mind and the feeling of being abonded grew too much, laying heavy on his chest. But he didn't. He couldn't or else he would be found by the wrong men.

He knew that his brothers would not have left him behind if he had a choice. Still, they weren't there now. And he coukdnt stop the bitter thoughts, that maybe he had deserved just this. That this was his penance for not having died many years ago. Maybe God wanted him to be able to relive this horrifying event and do what he was supposed to do then. But he couldn't. Wouldn't give up. Not as long as his brothers could still be breathing. 

He reminded himself that this was not Savoy, that not everything was lost yet. He hadn't found their corpses and as long as he wouldn't, he would not give up.

So he tumbled through the trees, careful to be as silent as possible, while the pounding in his skull drowned the few sounds of the forest.

As he reached his destination and a small camp of a few tents, two fires and around fifteen men appeared. On three trees on the outer side of the camp were his brothers bound and gagged.

As much as he could see young d'Artagnan was unconscious, having only the rope around his chest left to hold him somehow upright. Beside him was Porthos, looking ready to rip off any head that came too close to him or his brothers. And then there was Athos, calculating eyes roaming over the camp and surely searching for a way out. But there was a tightness on his face that indicated pain. 

Aramis was relieved to see them alive. He knew they would be injured, otherwise they would not left him behind, but he was glad they were still breathing. 

Still, he couldn't be sure how gravely wounded they were. He hadn't seen how the fight had ended. 

As they had been ambushed in the snowy forest in their own little camp, reality and memory had been hard to keep seperated. All he had seen were blue cloaks fighting for their life's and dark dressed, masked men slashing down at them. At his feet were corpses, but he couldn't tell if they were comrades or bandits. All he knew was that he had to fight and that he did. Even though he hadn't been sure where he was or with whom he was fighting, sometimes it was Athos by his side, then the next moment it was Claude, or Marsac, or Leon, he had fought as skilled and deathly as ever. 

Until something hit his head. 

As he had woken up again, his brothers and the bandits had gone. He hadn't seen them taking out d'Artagnan with the butt of a pistol against his head or stabbing Athos in his thigh and forcing Porthos to lay down his weapon as guns were trained on his brothers.  
All he had seen was that he had been left behind again. 

But this time, he would not return alone.  
Either he would return with his brothers or finally lay down to rest by their side. There was nothing in between. 

So he crept closer towards his brothers, careful to not to be seen by the quite inattentive guards.  
As he was right behind the trees and only a feet meters seperated the camp and him from another, he laid down and crawled forward. He could not risk to be seen now. 

He reached Athos first. Pulling out his dagger he sliced through the ropes around the swordsmans wrists who tensed up in return. 

"It's me." Aramis whispered, immediately noticing that Athos relaxed once he recognized the voice. But beside that he didn't show any sign of noticing his brother. They first had to get free before they could make a move. 

So Aramis also freed Porthos and d'Artagnan, who unfortunately was still Unconscious and sank further down the trunk once there weren't any rope left to hold him up. 

"Stay until I give you a sign." Aramis shot a last worried glance over to d'Artagnan before he crawled away. Once he was far enough away from the camp he rushed through the trees to reach the other side of the camp.

There he hid beneath a trunk in safe distance, primed his gun and shot. He didn't hit his target, his vision still a little blurry from the hit against his head. But that wasn't even important. The bandits jumped to their feet, turning their backs to their prisoners. 

Aramis loaded and shot again. He did it three more times until his brothers were gone from the camp unnoticed and the bandits started to run into the woods to search for the attacker. 

As fast as his arching head allowed, he ran into the direction where he mused his brothers would have gone and out of the way of the bandits. He stumbled every now and then, using the trees for support so he would not fall. 

His lungs were burning and his legs cold and heavy as he finally heard familiar voices. 

Before he could see them, a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him in a tight hug. It was Porthos, who laughed roughly as he placed a kiss on his head.  
"We thought they had killed you, mom ami." Porthos voiced his concern before Athos too hugged him.

'And I thought you've left me behind 'Aramis added mentally. 

That a third hug never came brought something important to Aramis mind. 

"How's the Lad?" 

Porthos shrugged as he pointed at a slumped form sitting against a tree. One cloak was draped over him and another one laid beneath d'Artagnan to shield him from the cold ground.

"Got a nasty head wound, but we think he will be fine. Breathing is normal."

Aramis nodded, satisfied for the moment. He would definitely need to examine the wound, but not here. Not outside in the darkness of the woods. Not when he himself felt as if he could vomit every second and not when Athos was leaning heavily against a tree. 

"What happened to you?" Aramis turned to the lieutenant who waved his hand dismisseley. 

"Nothing that can't wait until we've found shelter."

"You mean an Inn, somewhere outside of these dark woods." Porthos added, not wanting to spent another night out there. Aramis thanked him mentally, but didn't notice the worried glance from his brother who had seen the marksman's eyes always darting around and his normally so steady hand shake. 

Athos nodded grimly. He didn't like the thought of having to travel longer than necessary in the night but these woods weren't save anymore and d'Artagnan had to be treated. And Aramis needed some safety. 

"Then let's not lose any more time." Porthos took the unconscious body of their brother while Aramis put an arm around Athos waist.


	26. Ransom - All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Duke is taken hostage and the Bandits want ransom.  
Unfortunalety, the King isn't willing to pay it and so the Musketeers ride into a dangerous mission in order to save the Duke.
> 
> Background story for 18 - Asphyxiation and 19 - Trembling.

The mission had been doomed right from the start.  
It had started with a hastily prepared leave on a late afternoon, the rain pouring down on and them.  
Treville had tried to work out a plan as concrete as possible, but the time was running out and there had not been any for strategies and maps. Once the message, that a Duke had been taken hostage by bandits who wanted a far too high ransom for him, had reached the court, Treville had ordered his four best men to prepare for the mission.  
Only an hour later they were sent off, faked coins in their saddlebags and the whipping rain in their faces.  
They had to spur their horses far over their limits, as the bandits wanted to make the delivery once the sun had set. This far, the bandits seemed quite organized – not giving the Musketeers or the King much time or choice. Their instructions had been quite clear.  
Wouldn’t the gold be at the meeting point at the given time, the Duke would be killed. Would it be a trap, the Duke would be killed. Will come more than four men, the Duke will be killed.  
And now the Musketeers had a only-half-thought-through plan of a trap with fake coins pursuing the outrunning time.  
“ARAMIS!” Athos called over the howling wind, without looking back at the marksman who rode right behind him. “You will hide and cover us! Shoot once there is any real danger to the Duke.”  
Aramis nodded grimly, water dripping down his face and making him look just as miserable as determined as he was.  
The other three would make the delivery of the coins. As much as Athos wanted to put at least one more of his men into the woods to cover them, he couldn’t afford it. The bandits would surely become suspicious when there were only two Musketeers.  
So Porthos, d’Artagnan and Athos carried the six, fully laden saddlebags over their shoulders. The horses had been bound to the last row of trees, just as the captors had wanted it. They were walking right into a trap but couldn’t do much against it. Their only hope was that that the bandits would hold true their word and hand out the Duke once they got the coins – provided they believed that the faked money was real. If not, the Musketeers would have to fight their way out against an unknown number of opponents while simultaneously trying to save the Duke. Should this be the case, Aramis was their best chance.  
Hidden in the trees, about two hundred feet away from the old barn, where the bandits hid in, Aramis laid on a thick branch, glancing through the leaves as his bothers walked right into the danger.  
He hated this situation whole heartly but couldn’t come with a better plan either. He would be more use up in the trees as a backup than down there by their side. Still, he had a bad feeling tingling in his chest.  
Down on the field, the three Musketeers had almost reached the barn as seven men stepped outside. One of them the Duke, dirty and bruised but otherwise fine, hands bound and gagged he was dragged by one of the Bandits.  
Athos assessed the situation fast. Six heavily armed men and a hostage – not impossible should it come to a fight, but it would be a hard one. They could win, should it really only be these six bandits. But who knew if more were hidden inside the barn or in the woods?  
The woods where Aramis was alone and lying vulnerable on a branch.  
“We’ve got what you wanted!” D’Artagnan announced, pointing at the heavy saddlebags. “Now hand over the Duke and you get the money.”  
The men laughed as one of them stepped forward. A long beard and just as equal long hair made him look more like a Viking than a French bandit as a musket hang over his broad shoulders. “First the money, than the Duke.” He answered.  
The three Musketeers exchanged a short, uncertain glance before Porthos and Athos threw their bags as far as possible, causing them to land in the middle of the untouched area between the two groups.  
“The other two too.” The leader of the bandits grumbled, but Athos shook his head determined. “How can we be sure that you stay true to your word?”  
The bandit looked uncertain, he certainly had hoped for things to go different. But he gave in, sending two men to retrieve the bags. Once they were back in their line, they opened one – big grins fading fast.  
Then, several things happened in the same moment.  
One Bandit dragged the Duke back into the Barn, barricading the door behind them.  
The remaining five men drew their weapons, just as the three Musketeers did.  
Aramis aimed at the leader – but Porthos was in his way – so he had to change tactics and searched for another target.  
The Musketeers horses were cut loose, from four more bandits who had hid in the forests. The well trained animals would normally not just run away, but a few hard slaps and they were off into the distance.  
Aramis decided to take a shot, taking out one of the Bandits as they started to charge. This drew the attention of the four hidden bandits to him. Splitting up, two searched for the marksman while the other two joined the battle.  
There was no time for elegance of fair fighting as the six bandits attacked the Musketeers from all sides, separating them from each other. D’Artagnan, who had to fight against the bulky leader and another slimmer man, was the first to make a mistake. He concentrated too much on taking out the leader, that he left the slimmer man out of sight for half a second. A sharp pain and the thick sound of a blade impaling itself in his shoulder was the price for this mistake. He groaned out in pain, but managed to not let his guard down further. Turning around and slashing out fast, he sliced down the slim man with ease before turning back to the leader.  
Aramis, who hadn’t been able to see how many bandits had hidden in the woods and had thought that there were only two of them, had made the next mistake with staying where he was.  
Like this, he may had been able to take out one of the men attacking Porthos from behind – but he was left open for an attack from below. He heard the voices too late. Not being able to just turn around and shoot, he had to carefully sit up on the branch. He was still in the movement as the familiar sound of a pistol being unlocked vibrated in his ears.  
“Throw the musket down here.” One of the bandits commanded. Aramis looked at the weapons trained at him. Knowing when he was defeated, he pushed the musket from the branch and let it fall to the forest fall.  
“And the rapier.” He followed the order again and then climbed down the tree, as the Bandits wanted.  
As one of them came closer, he thought about fighting him, but the other one was still training his gun at him and currently they didn’t want to kill him. So he let them tie a rope too tightly around his wrists behind his back.

The third mistake was done by Athos. After d’Artagnan’s groan of pain he had been distracted – wanting to go to his brother and help him as fast as possible. So his opponent managed to kick him in the stomach, forcing him to stumble backwards and fall to the ground. Then, there was a heavy foot on his sword arm but he refused to let go of his weapon. He tried to wriggle free or get to his dagger at least, but just as his other hand gripped the hilt of it, the bandit loosened his foot for a second just to step on Athos’ arm with full force. There was a sickening crunch as Athos couldn’t hold back a scream.  
A shot followed the scream, disturbing the fight and silencing the men in battle as they turned to the pistol had been fired. It hung loosely in the hand of an bandit who stood beside Aramis, a second one held a knife against his throat.  
“Surrender now Musketeers, or we slice your comrade open.” The one with the pistol shouted to be heard over the whole battlefield.  
Athos, who was still laying on the ground, breathing through the pain, forced his head up to see what was happening.  
D’Artagnan stumbled a step back from the leader, the rapier still clutched tightly in his hand but less sure of what to do. He searched for an answer, and order in Athos’ face, who still had to make sense out of the situation.  
It was Porthos growl, followed by the sound of a rapier clattering to the ground, that told the young Gascon what to do. Reluctantly he followed Porthos’ example and tossed his weapon aside, causing the bandits grin as they reformed into a line in front of the barn. Out of the previous ten men, there were only the one in the barn and four more left. Still, with the Duke still in their grip and now Aramis too, there was not much the Musketeers could do now against them.

“Because we’re so generous, we’ll give you another day to get the money we wanted. Real coins now, if you please. Aren’t you here with it tomorrow by sunset, both your friend and the Duke will die.”

Porthos grumbled something under his voice, but with the real threat against Aramis’ life he didn’t dare to make a move. Instead he stamped over to Athos, who was sitting by now, and help him back to his feet, worrying eyes taking in the weird form of his arm.  
D’Artagnan was beside them in mere moments, eyes still focused on Aramis who was now dragged inside the barn more roughly than necessary.  
“What now?” The Lad asked, voice thin as he tried to not show the discomfort he was in due to the wound in his shoulder. 

“We need a plan. A good one.” Athos mumbled, leaning heavily against Porthos as they walked deeper into the woods to make a camp there.  
….  
They knew that they would not get the coins they needed from the King to pay the ransom to the bandits.  
After bandaging each other up as good as they could, they had sat together, thinking of a possible way to get both Aramis and the Duke out of the barn without any further harm.  
After long discussions, a short fight between Porthos and d’Artagnan who were only inches from hitting each other, long silence and much brooding, they got something that could pass as a plan. With much creativity and two closed eyes. Maybe.  
Neither of them was happy with it, but they hadn’t many possibilities left.  
Without horses, they would not have been able to get help in time. Wounded as they were, they could not fight again.  
So – as the sun rose and only two Bandits were awake to guard the barn – they sneaked to the backside of the barn. With Porthos most capable to fight if needed, he guarded the two injured Musketeers while they enlightened a fire at the wall.  
Thanks to the rain of yesterday it was a harder task than thought, but still they managed to set a fire on the barn and hide in the first bushes they reached.  
It didn’t take long for the bandits to notice and wake up. Men were running out of the building, all the time under the watchful eyes of the Musketeers.  
The ransom they wanted obviously forgotten, they had left the hostages behind in the burning building. Just what the Musketeers had hoped for. Having wetted their clothes in a creek before, they were at least a little bit save from the red flames as they threw in the only window on the backside of the barn. Being the slimmest of them, it was d’Artagnan who climbed in first. But as it was obvious that he alone would not be able to save two men, Porthos had to squeeze himself through the same window too, which showed to be a bit more of a challenge. After a few curses, he landed inside the barn with a thud just to be greeted by smoke and unbearable heat.  
He coughed, putting his arm in front of his mouth as he searched for the Hostages. D’Artagnan, who had found the two already, shouted his name and guiding him through the raging flames.  
D’Artagnan and Porthos made fast works with the ropes binding the two men against some barrels before hauling them to their feet.  
“We’re fine. Let’s get out of this hell.” Aramis announced quickly and took the lead towards the window. First, he helped the Duke out before climbing out of the window himself.  
Athos was already waiting for them, handing out waterskins as both men were shaken by heavy coughs as they had been breathed in too much smoke. 

D’Artagnan was just about to climb out of the window next, as the flames had eaten their way through the barrels’ wood and enflamed the black powder in them.  
The explosion not only flung the roof and the walls of the barn through the air, but also the men in and around it.  
Aramis, Athos and the Duke were happily far enough away to only fall and not hurt them selves too bad. Porthos and d’Artagnan on the other hand were thrown through the air, already unconscious as they hit the ground and shard of glass and wood landed on top of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your on going support and lovely reviews!


	27. Beaten - Aramis.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 28: Beaten.
> 
> Aramis drowns his surrows in wine and searches for trouble. He gets what he wants.

It had been a beautiful day for Paris.  
The Queen, who had miscarried a child and hadn’t been able to bear a heir after that, had announced her pregnancy. The King was in a very good mood this, letting a pompous ball be arranged for the evening and showering his wife with jewellery.   
The simple folk celebrated the good news by themselves. The ones who could sing or even play an instrument gathered on the market place, playing joyous song to which the people danced and drank. In the taverns weren’t any empty chairs left, the people streaming from their houses to the market place and the enclosed taverns.  
Merely the Wren, the usual tavern of the Musketeers regiment, was almost unoccupied this joyous evening as the regiment was well needed in the palace.  
It was late in the night as the Royals’ festivities slowly came to an end. As the palace emptied, the Musketeers were finally released from their Duty and sent back to the Garrison.  
Otherwise than the Palace, the Parisian streets were still crowded with beautiful women, drunk men and children who should be in bed since hours.   
The group of blue cloaks had to squeeze through the narrow streets. Some of the soldiers were more eager to go to be than others and so their ways separated every now and then, until only small groups of Musketeers were left.  
Just then, Athos noticed the missing of a fourth as d’Artagnan and Porthos already rushed inside a tavern. He frowned as he hadn’t heard his friend bidding them a goodnight, but on the other hand had it been so loud outside that he just could have overheard it.   
Aramis had been quieter than usual all day long. The moment the Queen had announced her pregnancy, his face had fallen ash white as this one night flashed through his mind again. And as their eyes met another for half a moment his heart skipped a few beats before it started to race in his chest. One look into her deep blue eyes and he had known it was true. The Queen was pregnant with his son, the Dauphin would be his son, the new heir to France, the next King, will be his. And no one could ever know. And should – should their secret ever come out – he would not only be sentenced to death but he would also be responsible for the death or exile of Anne and his son.

So, after the Ball had ended, Aramis had hang behind the other Musketeers and entering the first tavern that came up on their way towards the Garrison. Glad that no one had followed him, he took one of the last seats at the bar and ordered a bottle of wine.  
A second one followed not long after, as he already swayed dangerously on his seat. The barkeeper looked at him suspiciously, but as Aramis groped some coins from his purse all the man’s concerns were vanished and the second bottle of wine was placed in front of the Musketeer.  
He was half into the bottle as someone pushed into him, causing the red liquid to spill over the counter.   
Aramis stiffened and as he waited uselessly for an apology, he turned around slowly eying the man in front of him.   
“I wanted to drink this.” Aramis hissed, his words slurring into each other as he stood up slowly, the world swaying around him.   
“And now you won’t.” The man answered coldly, ready to turn around again and leave the drunken Musketeer be.  
But Aramis wasn’t done yet. He hadn’t been done with his wine either, because it hadn’t yet successfully drowned all his problems. He wondered if it did really help Athos and how much the swordsman had to drink that it helped. Because at the moment, he felt just as hopeless as before. Just a little bit dizzier.  
Aramis grabbed the man by his shoulder and spun him back to face him, fists clenching.  
“Replace the wine.” He demanded, but deep down he knew it wasn’t about the spilled liquid. And it wasn’t about the money he had paid for it. He didn’t really want the man to replace the good, all he wanted was a chance to let out his frustration.   
As he had calculated, the man gave him this chance as he laughed loudly at the demand.   
“I’m not paying you anything, Musketeer.”  
Aramis growled, his fist flying faster than you would have thought it could in his state.  
The man staggered back a few steps before catching himself and running back at Aramis, swinging his own fists at the Musketeer, who was able to duck the first but was hit by the second one in the face.   
Aramis fell against the bar behind him, barely staying upright with all the alcohol in his blood.  
He gulped down the bile that threatened to rise and threw his own punches. It was an almost fair match, as Aramis was still better trained as his opponent – until the man managed to hit his nose two times after another, something crushing under the impact and blood running feely from Aramis’ face.   
He gasped as the pain shot through his head, causing his anyway blurry vision to turn black for a few seconds.   
As he found his eyesight again, he found himself on the floor, the heavy weight of his opponent on his chest.   
While his left arm was caught between his own body and the thigh of the man, his right one was currently crushed by his own weight against the floor. He didn’t have much time to think about the pain shooting through his arm, as the man sitting on him started to let some fast strokes rain on his face and torso.

He couldn’t tell how much later the man finally stopped with his assault or how long he stayed on the floor of the tavern until the barkeeper heaved him up with a growl. “Don’t you dare to ever come back to my tavern.” The Barkeeper hissed as he half dragged, half carried Aramis to the door, where e stumbled outside, barely able to hold himself on his feet as an burning pain spread through his ribs.   
He leaned heavily against the wall of a house, savouring the coldness of the stone against his hot face and pounding head. Minutes later he had gathered enough strength to stumble forwards, one hand bracing him against the wall as he slowly made his way back to the Garrison.  
Between all the other voices on the street and the pounding in his skull he did not even hear the familiar voices of his friends until they stood right in front of him. Someone had his hands on his shoulders, shaking him slighty.   
Aramis felt like being sick, but he tried to breathe it away and forced his head upwards. Porthos’ face was nothing but a blurry image in front of his eyes, but he would notice the deep grumble everywhere. 

“I guess… I’ve lost.” Aramis grinned sheepishly, blood colouring his teeth red.  
“What happened?” Athos was already slinging one of his arms around his shoulder, trying to take as much weight as possible until Porthos was on the other side too. 

“He’d spilled my wine.” Aramis slurred, leaning more into Porthos than he would have admitted to.  
“Seems you have had enough anyway.” D’Artagnan sighed as he took in the sorry sight his friend was in.   
Bruises were already forming on his handsome face where not blood covered it. He was hunched forward, his knees buckling underneath his own weight and his breath stank like alcohol and blood.

“No. I decide when I’ve had enough. And now, I want some more wine.” Aramis argued and tried to wriggle out of his friends grips, but was no fight to Athos nor Porthos.

“First you get some sleep.” Athos answered drily and slowly started to walk towards the Garrison. “And we’ll look after your wounds.”

Aramis shook his head weakly. “More alcohol. Wasn’t enough yet.” He murmured, barely audible now as he sank further against Porthos.

“Oh believe me, you’ve had enough, mon ami.” Porthos frowned. Aramis was no one to be known for his drinking and he had never seen his friend in such a state before. Usually Aramis knew his limits well and never went over the point of being tipsy. 

It was Athos who understood but kept silent. He remembered the white face and wide eyes of his friend as the Queen had announced the pregnancy, remembered the night at the content all too well. He cursed himself for not having noticed earlier. He should have known that Aramis was carrying these bad emotions with him. Should have known that the marksman would try to deal with them by himself.  
But he couldn’t have known that it would end up like this. Normally, Aramis would speak to them when he had something on his mind – or he would spend his time with a beautiful woman or pray, until his sins are forgotten or forgiven. Aramis wasn’t known for drowning his problems in wine.  
So why did he start now?

“But I haven’t forgotten yet.” Aramis whined, eyes screwed shut in pain.  
“What?” D’Artagnan asked, holding open the door towards his room so that he could be carried inside.  
“Can’t say.” Aramis waved his hand dismissively, not noticing the furrowed brows of d’Artagnan and Porthos as they tried to make sense out of his words.  
“We will talk tomorrow when you’re sober again. Rest now.” It was Athos who ushered the others outside the room before Aramis would say something he would regret and stayed with him through the night.


	28. Numb - Aramis and All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So as promised, here is a follow up to 13. Adrenaline !

“They’re ice cold.” D’Artagnan observed with worry in his eyes as he unbuttoned Aramis’ wet doublet.  
Athos’ nodded in agreement as he did the same to Porthos’. A deep frown was on his brow as his gaze switched from the two unconscious men on the beds.   
They had expected to having to treat Porthos, due to his headwound from earlier in the fight and also because of his long time in the water unconscious. What they hadn’t expected was that Aramis would lose consciousness once they were out of the water and not regain it anytime soon.   
They were in a semi-warm room of an Inn now, the fire stoked with as much wood as possible to get the wounded men warm.   
“I can’t find an injury on Aramis.” D’Artagnan announced, having undressed Aramis completely now and laid several blankets over his ice-like body. He wasn’t even shaking, and both d’Artagnan and Athos knew that this was a bad sign.  
Somehow they had hoped for a wound, a injury – anything that they could treat and heal but to beat coldness was a harder task.  
They had put bricks over the fire to heat and now they were finally warm enough to be laid underneath the pile of blankets.  
Athos, who was currently cleaning Porthos’ head wound, was wishing that his brothers would wake up – at least for a few moments, so they could give them something hot to drink and warm them up from the inside. The coldness of the skin was an unpleasant thing, but what really was dangerous was the coldness inside a body, when the heart and the blood cooled down.   
But as long as neither Porthos or Aramis decided to wake up, there was not much they could do but changing the bricks regulary and keeping the fire going.  
…  
The sun was setting as a soft moan erupted the otherwise deathly silent room.  
It was Aramis, who’s head turned to the side before his eyelids slowly fluttered open.   
“What?” He asked, voice horse and face scrunched in confusion as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. 

“We’ve brought you to an Inn, after both of you were out cold.” Athos explained, already carrying a steaming cup of tea towards the bed.   
D’Artagnan helped Aramis sit up stiffly as his limbs would not cooperate the way he liked it. 

Aramis stretched out a hand to take the cup from Athos, but was wrecked by a heavy coughing fit. D’Artagnan, who was still sitting by his side, patted his back and then turned to draw soothing circles on it as the cough ebbed down.   
“How are you feeling?” The Gascon asked concerned as Aramis did not make another attempt to take the cup.  
“Cold.” Aramis wheezed, only slowing coming back to his breath.  
“You should drink the tea to warm you up.” Athos suggested, sitting down on a nearby chair.  
Aramis nodded, suddenly remembering the tea again. His hand stretched out again, but as d’Artagnan gave him the cup, his fingers would not bend with enough strength to hold the tea without spilling it.  
Ashamed, Aramis tried it with both hands, but even then d’Artagnan still had to hold the cup for him to stop it from falling down. 

“I’m not really feeling my hands.” Aramis admitted, head hung low and hairs falling into his face. He hated to be sick, hated it when someone had to care for him but what he hated the most was when someone saw his weakness.   
“It’s okay.” D’Artagnan assured and held the cup to his lips. Stubborn as he was, Aramis tried to hold the cup nevertheless, but d’Artagnan would not let go while Aramis slowly drank the warming liquid.  
“Good?” Athos asked once the cup was emptied, earning a small nod from Aramis.  
“How’s Porthos?” Aramis then asked as his eyes flew over to the other side of the room.  
“Still knocked out.” The marksman unofficial medic was ready to jump to his feet, were it not for d’Artagnan’s hand on his shoulder. “We’ve tended to his wound, his pupils looked normal and is breathing comes in a regular rhythm.” He assured, a small smile playing at his lips at the open concern and distrust on Aramis’ face.  
“I’ll check that for my self.” With that, Aramis pushed himself to his feet. Once the blankets fell to the floor he noticed his mistake, turning a little red in his face as he grabbed one of the blankets and wound it around his waist, earning a giggle from d’Artagnan. “Not that we haven’t seen that before.”  
Not thinking that this earned an answer, Aramis stumbling through the room with numb legs and using the furniture to guide him towards the opposite bed.  
Athos and d’Artagnan would have helped but they knew how stubborn Aramis could be. Moreover they didn’t want to encourage his behaviour of leaving the sick bed too early.   
However, d’Artagnan followed the marksman with another blanket and draped it over his shoulders, once he had sat down beside Porthos.  
First, Aramis’ felt his friends pulse before pulling down the bandage around his head and examining the wound with a satisfied nod. “Looks good.” He exhaled.

“Told you.” Athos lips quirked into something resembling a smile as he too, stood up and went over to his brothers. “And now you get back into your warm bed, drink more tea and get some warmth into your limbs.   
Aramis checked Porthos breath and pulse one more time before he agreed and let himself be guided over to his bed again.   
“Remember me,” he started as he sat down on the bed and tried to pull the blankets over his body, “that the next time, someone of you two will jump.”   
The others huffed out a laugh as they put new bricks under the blankets and brought just another cup of tea. “I don’t think that any reasoning can hold you from such reckless actions.”

Aramis shrugged. Probably not. But he wished it would. God, he hated the cold.


	29. Recovery - Porthos & Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 30 of Whumptober: Recovery.
> 
> It's a hard and stony path. Gladly there are friends to guide you.

The path of recovery is a long and stony one, with many ups and downs, requiring much determination and strength from not only the injured one but also from the person tending to him.  
Porthos had learned it the hard way for both sides.  
It had taken weeks for the wound over his eye to heal and his eyesight to come back mostly – even now he still saw a little bit blurry on the left eye. The time he had to heal was the worst of his life. Bound the bed, needing help with each little action… he really never wanted to have to relive it.  
But this time had also taught him understanding and patience for the times when he stood on the other side of the room, caring for a loved one or, like now, a comrade.  
He had seen Aramis only a few times before he and the others had left for their mission in Savoy. They have talked a few times as Aramis had shown him how to shoot and Porthos had thought then that they could become friends sometime.  
This had changed dramatically after the massacre.  
The Aramis Porthos had gotten to know had been left behind in the snowy forest. Returned had the shallow shell of a once joyous man.   
The first weeks, Aramis was under the strict watch of the Garrison’s medic Gerard. Not that he would have really done anything anyways. Porthos had come to visit every now and then, helping the medic when they had to change the various bandages on the weakened body or wash the wounded Musketeer. The old medic would not have been able to accomplish the tasks alone and had asked him for help once. Since then it had been a steady rhythm of Porthos’ visits.  
Back in the infirmary, Aramis was mostly unconscious or asleep, often drugged by the medic to cope with the heavy headache, which was caused by a deep gash on his brow. The once long hair had been cut short for better excess, the normally toned skin was ashen and the bright smile had been washed from the Marksman’s face. The few times he was awake, he didn’t talk or look at them. Sometimes, Porthos thought, he seemed distant, as if he was somewhere else. Porthos didn’t want to imagine in which dark place Aramis was caught, when his eyes grew wide and his breath fastened.   
Porthos hadn’t been with the men riding to Savoy to retrieve the bodies – and Aramis. So he had been spared the gruesome scene, but he could well imagine how it had to look like. In the Court of Miracles had been enough mass graves to encourage his imagination.  
Porthos had just been dressing Aramis back into his braies and a new shirt after his bath, the man as uncooperative as ever, as Gerard was stepping into the Courtyard to speak with an upcoming Musketeer. The door had been left open to get some fresh air into the sticky room, so Porthos was able to ear drop while he buttoned the shirt up for Aramis.   
He recognized Athos’ voice immediately. The neutral, almost bored, tone was nothing you could miss once you’ve heard it. Athos had come to the Musketeers in the same month like Athos, and was promoted to being Treville’s Lieutnant once the news of Savoy had reached the Garrison.   
Aramis would not be able to full fill his duty as Treville’s Second for some time – if ever again. And that was what the conversation seemed to be about.

“How is he?” Athos asked, cautiously peering into the room. Porthos tried to look as busy as possible, even though he was almost ready with dressing Aramis.

“His wounds – his physical wounds are healing. At least the one I know of. I am not sure what had happened to his head. If it’s his mind or his brain that are addled.” Gerard whispered, sadness hovering in his voice.  
Porthos knew all of this already. The Medic was updating him on a regular basis. Moreover Porthos wasn’t blind. He could see the deep gash on Aramis’ brow healing into a thin scar, see the bruises fading and the bones set back into their right places. He could also see the blankness in the mans eyes.  
There had been only a few moments in which the blankness had been gone, exchanged with pure fear. Most times it had been in the darker hours, which seemed to distress Aramis the most. Then, he sometimes relived the horrors of Savoy.

“Will he ever be able to return to Duty? The King… He isn’t willing to pay any longer for a ‘hopeless cause’, as he called him.” Despite the monotonous sound of Athos’ voice, Porthos could still tell that there was something like sympathy hidden beneath it.  
At the question Gerard only shrugged his shoulders. “Only God can tell, my son.”  
“Thank you.”

It had been only a week after this conversation that Aramis had been moved into his new room. No one wanted to put him in his old one, the one he had shared with Marsac.   
Porthos could live with the decision. The injuries were almost healed and only required some salves every now and then. Nothing for which you would need a Medic.  
Treville had relieved Porthos from some duties, so he would have some more time to look after Aramis.  
The first days he had come into his room in the morning, a bowl of porridge in his hand and a broad smile on his face, he was only greeted by Aramis’ back. Even though they were slowly reducing the doses of his medicine, he was sleeping almost just as much as in the beginning. If to heal, to bear the pain or to run from reality, no one could know. After all Aramis did not talk to any of them.  
Each day, Porthos had left the bowl with the uncooperating man and had took it back untouched in the afternoon. Aramis was slowly wasting away, growing thinner with each day. His shortened hair growing unevenly over his ears and his beard was already covering his face.  
No matter how much patience Porthos had brought with him in the beginning of this ordeal, it was thinning out.  
It didn’t matter what he did or what he said. Nothing helped.  
Not until after almost a week of the location change of Aramis.  
Porthos was almost shocked to see the man sitting up by himself, staring at the wall opposite from him, right beside the door Porthos was standing in.  
“Where is he?” Aramis’ voice was hoarse and thinner than Porthos’ remembered. Nevertheless it stoked a flicker of hope in his chest. 

“Who?” Porthos frowned. No matter how glad he was that Aramis’ was finally talking, he didn’t like the confused look in the mans eyes.  
“Marsac.”

Porthos tightened his grip on the bowl off porridge, ready to crash it – weren’t it for the lost Musketeer in front of him. So he took a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm.  
“Gone. Deserted.” He explained shortly as he set the bowl aside.   
Aramis brow furrowed as he stared a some spot on the wall, before he closed his eyes tightly and then nodded, slighty. “I forgot.”

Porthos gulped, his chest clenching as he took in the sorry sight of a man. Aramis’ thin fingers were clenching around the crucifix in them, his blue veins visible through the thin skin, as his haunted eyes stared at this one spot.  
“That’s not my room.” He then observed, voice a little bit less trembling, but still confused.  
“Yeah – It’s not. We didn’t want to put you back… there.”  
“Why not?” Aramis frowned.  
“Because of him. You know?”

Aramis’ wrinkles deepened as he shook his head. “Marsac? Where is he?”  
Time had stopped for a moment as Porthos’ brain made a turn, recreating the last minutes of their small conversation. “Deserted.” He then explained. Again.  
“Oh.” Aramis then pushed his hands through his hair, eyes scrunching shut at either a bad memory or his headache.  
As he then opened then again, his eyes flew over the room just to stop on Porthos. “This is not my room.”

Porthos sighed. This could be a long day. Or week.  
…  
It was a slow, patience robbing, process. But Aramis’ memory got better. Porthos had to explain what had happened in Savoy about a dozen times to the confused man. So he had to be there over a dozen times too, when Aramis went through the pain and the grief again and again.  
So Porthos was at first relieved when he visited Aramis a few days later in the evening and the man didn’t ask the same questions all over again.   
“I’ve brought you some stew. Serge said it’s your favourite.” Porthos smiled as he put the steaming bowl on the table.  
“I’m not hungry.” Aramis answered, voice sharp and icy. Porthos frowned. Aramis hadn’t behaved like this before. Even though there had been some days where he had ignored him, as everything grew too much to him, he had never spoken to him with so much hate in his voice.

For a second Porthos wished the confused, memory-loss plagued Aramis back. But he shoved the thought aside fastly. Maybe this was the way Aramis’ grieved and coped with all the stress. It certainly wasn’t a good way – but it was a way nevertheless.  
“You should still try to eat something. You need to get your strength back. Treville needs you to train the recruits.”  
At this Aramis huffed a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh he does. We’ve got some quite young boys, the need-“ 

“No.” Aramis laid down on the bed he had sat on and turned his back to Porthos. “Leave.”

Porthos sighed, but obeyed.  
…  
Against his hopes, the next day nothing had changed. Aramis still refused to eat or to talk, or when he did only harsh words left his mouth.  
In the evening, after his Guard Duty at the Palace, Porthos returned again. Even though he slowly lost his will to help the Marksman, he had least had to check on him.  
He hadn’t even opened the door completely, as Aramis wanted him to leave again. But Porthos refused and stalked into the sticky room. Due to his heavy headaches the windows and the shutters were mostly closed, and sleeping like he did most of the time, Aramis did not think about airing the room the slightest.  
So Porthos decided to at least leave the door open as he placed a new hot bowl of stew beside the cold one from noon.   
“Leave.” Aramis repeated himself, his back still turned to Porthos.  
“What if I don’t?”  
He noticed how the Musketeer’s shoulders tensed. “Leave!”

“No. I think it’s quite comfy in here.” With that, Porthos sat down on the lonely chair in the room, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “I think I will stay the night.”

Faster than Porthos would have thought him able to, Aramis sat up, glaring daggers at the recruit. “I said you shall leave.”

“Make me.” Porthos did not know why he was like this now, but maybe, just maybe it was this that Aramis wanted. A fight, an argument. Something to let all this fury and confusion out. Someone to let it out on. 

What he hadn’t expected was for the Marksman to grab under his pillow and draw a gun from underneath it. A shaking hand aimed it at Porthos, who only folded his arms over his chest.  
“Are you gonna shoot me now? With that shaking arm?”

Aramis growled but kept the gun up. Something was flickering in his eyes. Despair?

Porthos shook his head slowly. “Treville won’t be amused.”

At this, Aramis straightened his arm again, as if he truly was about to shoot. “Treville here, Treville there. Do you really think I care about what the man wants or thinks of me?!”

Porthos frowned. He was true, yes he did. Aramis had been his Second in Command before all of this and it was no secret that Aramis was Treville’s favorite. The Marksman had been one of the first men in the regiment ever, and more like a son to Treville than anyone else.  
“I don’t!” Aramis shouted, his shaking gun still aimed at Porthos. “Why should I? He’s exchanged me like a limping horse! Got a new Lieutnant before I even was back in the Garrison. I’ve heard him. Him and Athos yesterday. Thinking I am a burden. Nothing more. Treville would be more than happy if I would just waste away finally.”

“That’s not true Aramis. And you know it. He’s talked hours with the King, almost pleading that you can stay here.”

The fury on Aramis’ face was slowly vanishing, his grip on the gun loosing a little bit.   
“And why is Athos then there?” With his free arm Aramis pointed right at the door. As Porthos turned his neck to see what Aramis meant, he saw Athos standing in the Courtyard, distributing orders to the Musketeers for the night and the next morning.

“Would you want to stand there? Now? Could you?” Porthos then challenged, voice calm and understanding.   
Aramis fell silent for a few moments, thoughts obviously racing through his head.

“I’m sure we could tell Treville and you could stand there, right now.” Porthos made a move of standing up, not really thinking the gun a threat.   
“No!” Aramis almost pleaded.   
“No I don’t want.” He then admitted, finally lowering the weapon.  
Porthos took it out of his think hands carefully, before sitting down beside Aramis, their shoulders touching.  
“I know all of this is messing with your head. It had happened quite a lot, too lot to bear, right? But you’re strong, Aramis. Otherwise you would not still be here. Weaker men would have died earlier. But you’re here now. Alive. And now, take your time to heal. Eat, get your strength back, take a walk or two. And then, then we can see what we can do for you. I’m sure Treville will always have a free spot for you in the higher ranks. I don’t think he ever thought about replacing you. He simply needed some help.”


End file.
